


Meet Me on the Equinox

by LostinFic



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Teninch Fic, There's a plot, Unresolved Emotional Tension, all around the world, alternative universe, and some angst, but lots of cute moments too, writer/photographer AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: She writes for magazines about luxurious resorts in exotic places and five-star hotels in glamorous cities. He’s photographed devastated war zones, refugee camps and child soldiers. For both of them travel is an escape, but he’s had enough of this grim reality, and she’s had enough of this disconnected fantasy. Perhaps together they can find something in between, something real, and stop running from themselves.They start off on opposite sides, disliking each other. But their difference is what makes them complete each other, if only they could let their guards down.Irresistibly attracted to each other, they meet, more or less on purpose, all around the world. Each season, a new destination.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the most AU I’ve written for them because they have different careers, and in canon their jobs are such a big part of who they are, but I think I’ve managed to stay true to their essence.
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely Foxy for allowing me to write this alone even if it started as a collaboration. I didn’t keep what she wrote even though it was great, but she came up with many ideas for the plot and secondary characters.  
> It started almost two years ago, and the story has stayed on my mind ever since, it's very dear to me as I'm a traveler myself. I sincerely hope you will enjoy it too!

Hardy woke up gasping for breath. The room spun above him. The pillow was damp under his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath until his heart rate slowed down.

The city shone through the curtain-less window. 3:16 blinked on his alarm clock.

He turned on every lamp in his tiny flat, filled the empty space with light. He scrubbed a hand down his face and prepared a cup of tea. As the computer whirred to life, a knot formed in his stomach.

Nightmares were nothing new for him, but they harassed him more frequently since he’d been tasked with selecting his favourite photos for a retrospective exhibition of his work. For twenty years he’d roamed the world with his camera, documenting the best and worst of humanity. Mostly the worst. From war zones to refugee camps, from barren deserts to overpopulated slums. Shining a light on those forgotten and left behind. Twenty years of anonymous faces. Twenty years of people he’d promised to help staring back at him on his computer screen.

Had his work really made a difference?

He clicked on a folder labelled “Syria 2014”. Thumbnail pictures popped up one by one. He’d never accustomed to this jarring feeling: looking at devastated places from the safety of his flat. His brain couldn’t reconcile the vivid memory of fear gripping his guts and chemicals burning his lungs with his quiet surroundings. Here, only the rattle of a too-close commuter train track and one nosey neighbour bothered him. But his brain sought hidden dangers, pushed warnings through his blood.

Tess would have helped him pick the photos, he thought. She’d once been his editor. She’d encouraged and admired his work until his commitment to it drove her into another man’s arms.

Just like this flat, the separation from Tess was meant to be a temporary situation. But three years had passed and now the divorce papers rested in their sealed envelope on the corner of his desk. He wasn’t sure which of the divorce papers or his old photos were the hardest to look at. The children and women he’d failed to help properly or the woman and child he’d failed to make happy. 

He opened another folder of pictures, these ones from Tunisia in 2010, during the Arab Spring. An intense time, exhilarating. Still on his chair, he felt the protesters pushing against his body, carrying him like waves. He felt their thirst for freedom, the shift in the balance of power.

He selected a photo of a passionate young woman, shouting her heart out against the regime. Her eyes glistened with tears, her hands held high in peace signs. Red smoke surrounded her like a divine aura. In the next shot, a soldier punched her in the stomach. Hardy’s first instinct had been to take the photo. Thankfully, a young man came to her rescue. Hardy scrolled farther down the folder to another picture of the same young woman, a month later. In the crowd of protesters, she and the young man who helped her are exchanging wedding vows. He wondered what happened to them. He wondered what happened to their hopeful spirits.

Hardy slipped a hand under his grey t-shirt and touched the fresh scar on his chest.

Maybe this retrospective exhibition of his work was a second chance. An opportunity to atone for leaving these people behind.

The exhibition was still months away, in autumn, during a World Press Photo conference. Until then, he’d have to live with the nightmares.

His computer pinged with a new email notification. His eyebrows rose when he saw the sender: Ellie Miller.

_I’m sorry to reach out to you like this, out of the blue. I know I haven’t been in touch, but we need your help._

_Maybe you’ve heard, I’ve moved to Indonesia. There’s an island here, Pulau Kesuma, and there’s something really wrong going on. Foreign investors seized a huge part of the land to build a hotel, the Mahal Kita, and it’s been having a terrible effect on the local people and nature. I’m sure they must have done the same in other countries too._

_I tried to reach out to my former colleagues at BBC World but it’s a small island and they’re all very busy. What we need is a photographer to show the destruction._

_Give me a shout if you’re available and I’ll tell you more._

Hardy’s doctor had warned him against stressful work, but not helping people in need stressed him out more than throwing himself in the middle of a conflict. He replied to Ellie right away.

* * *

Hannah signed on the dotted line and returned the contract to her editor, Duncan. In exchange, he handed her a plane ticket to Pulau Kesuma and the necessary documents to complete her assignment for _Elite Travelers_ magazine.

“The Mahal Kita Eco-resort & Spa,” Hannah read out loud. “Eco-resort? Didn’t you say ecotourism is a load of bullshit?”

“It is. That’s not the part I’m interested in: this island was closed to tourists before now, at least to our kind of tourists. Smelly backpackers could go all they wanted and sleep in a goat pen.”

“How come it’s opened now?” she asked.

“There was no point in keeping it a nature reserve after the tsunami. So the Indonesian government lifted the restrictions. About two years ago. In exchange, the company helped restore the island.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, just focus on the resort, the beaches, the night life… ”

“I’ve an angle to sell it, the ecotourism—” she spread her hands in a presenting gesture— “treat yourself to a guilt-free escapade.”

His reaction was something between a nod and a shrug. He didn’t believe it could interest their readers, but the comments on her blog told her otherwise.

“Stick to what you’re good at. Don’t fuck this up. If you get this right, you could become a senior writer.”

Hannah gasped and smiled. “Really?”

Senior writer meant less freelance work to make ends meet, business-class travel, press pass to fashion weeks, yachts and five-star restaurants. Not to mention she’d be the youngest and only female senior writer.

Duncan drummed his hands on his desk. “All right, fuck off, I’ve other writers to babysit.”

After the meeting, Hannah went straight to Stanford, an iconic travel bookshop in London. Even as a child she loved this place with its hundreds of globes and ceiling-high shelves of guidebooks. She’d pester her parents relentlessly until they agreed to take her here.

There was an enormous vinyl National Geographic map on the floor, and she trailed her feet from England to Indonesia. It elicited a lightness in her chest, and she nearly danced to the Asia section.

She would spend a week at the resort, then she intended to visit the rest of Indonesia for three weeks. She flipped through guidebooks, and compiled a mental list of ideas she could pitch to other magazines.

In the periodical section she checked out the trends and the competition. She scanned the racks and flipped through a few magazines. Three of them mentioned carbon-neutral travel, zero-emission hotels or sustainable tourism. She didn’t want to bore her readers with the science of climate change or to make them feel guilty about flying in a private jet, but being environmentally-conscious was trendy right now so she needed to get on that.

Hannah herself had become interested in the subject after a trip to St. Maarten in the Caribbeans. Not because of the trip itself but a documentary she saw after about a side of St. Maarten hidden to tourists: a vast and ever-growing landfill caused by the flow of cruise ships. Half the island’s population lived in that junkyard. Filled with good intentions, she had bought the filmmaker’s latest book. A year later, it was still on her nightstand, a bookmark halfway through chapter two. It had not been written for neophytes, that much was clear. She had returned to her usual travel ways, but a discomfort lingered.

Should she stick to what she was good at, as Duncan put it, or go all environmentally-friendly? She knew what her editor expected but, if done right, bypassing his instructions could work in her favour. Or ruin her chances at a promotion.

Back home, she dropped her magazines on the small kitchen table that doubled as a desk. For all intents and purposes, her two-room flat was a storage unit: a place to keep her things while she traveled the world. She had plans to make it cozy and pretty but had yet to do it. The few weeks a year she was here, she spent working, eating takeout and trying to catch up on whatever normal people did with their lives. Still, the flat held all her souvenirs and books. It was a place to rest her weary feet and head. A place to listen to the rain and traffic, and to dream of her next trip. When it came to traveling, having a home was just as important as having a passport, it was the difference between traveler and vagabond.

Ben was coming by later, meanwhile she fixed her make-up and curled her hair.

When he arrived, he entered without knocking first. He carried a plastic bag of thai takeout. 

“Panang chicken for you,” he said as he placed the white oyster pails on the counter.

“Extra pineapple?”

“Extra pineapple.”

“Thanks, you’re the best,” Hannah kissed his cheek.

He blushed lightly and looked her up and down.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thanks, but don’t get any ideas, it’s for my followers,” she replied with a humorous tone.

She handed him her camera and stood in front of the one nice wall in her flat. She posed in a calculated casual way with various travel accessories and her new book on Indonesia.

“How much are you getting paid to have that bottle of sunscreen lotion in the frame with you?” Ben asked.

“Don’t ask, it will only make you mad.”

“Do you even like that stuff?”

“It’s alright.”

She actually couldn’t afford a regular supply of it beside the one sponsored bottle, but the product was very on brand for her.

After Condé Nast named her in their top ten travel blogs, her follower count surged. Sponsored posts became a significant source of income which translated as two more trips a year. She liked thinking of herself as an entrepreneur. She sold herself and her lifestyle— well the brighter side of her lifestyle— and it allowed her followers to indulge in a little fantasy.

She looked over Ben’s shoulder as he swiped through photos on the camera screen.

“Are we done? I’m peckish,” he said.

“Just a couple more, I’m not sure about that shirt.”

After some consideration, she switched her top for one that wouldn’t make her look so pale.

“Thankfully I’ll have a nice tan soon,” she said.

The change in Ben’s mood was subtle, he blinked too fast and his shoulders stiffened. And she felt herself becoming defensive, her cheeks warmed up.

“Oh. You’re leaving again.”

“You realize that’s like me saying: ‘oh you’re going to the office again’?”

“Yeah, the office, a cubicle with annoying coworkers and a boss, not a five-star hotel in L.A.”

“Christ, Ben, you know I didn’t become a writer for Elite Travelers by lounging around the pool all day.”

“I don’t need your resume.”

“I wouldn’t need to give it to you if you stopped implying mine’s not a real job.”

Ben tried for levity: “I’m just saying, why go halfway around the globe when you’ve got the best right here? You said so yourself.”

Hannah went along with the joke even if she knew part of him was serious. She tried not to create false hopes in him. She’d said she wasn’t interested in a relationship, that he shouldn’t wait for her. But when she traveled alone and felt lonely, she called him and, in-between trips, he was her only friend left in London.

She offered him a beer from the fridge and neither of them mentioned the trip again.

As they ate, she chose the best picture out of thirty and posted it on her Instagram account. She was the first to use #pulaukesuma, but not the last if she did her job well. 

Scrolling through her feed, she noticed a picture posted by her sister: her son’s birthday, with their whole family gathered for the occasion. It was today and they hadn’t invited her. “I didn’t think you were in the country,” Jackie replied when Hannah confronted her in a text message. She didn’t insist. What was the point? She was leaving soon anyway.

After the meal, she watched a movie with Ben, but her mind kept drifting off to her next assignment. She repeatedly stood up to get a glass of water or add something to her packing list. At the thought of Indonesia, her limbs buzzed with a sort of restlessness and her stomach swooped. 

She often thought of visiting a new country as flings. The way they occupy all your thoughts and that anticipation of seeing them. You want to know everything about them. There’s always more to discover and experience. You can’t get enough, but you know it can’t last. And in a way, that’s the best thing about it because you only have time to see the best of them. You must enjoy it while it lasts. When it ends, you’re sad and miss them, but, in all honesty, you wouldn’t settle there permanently. She was only ever faithful to London. Or perhaps she had yet to find the one.


	2. CGK - Indonesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardy and Hannah meet for the first time in Indonesia. They have very different reasons to be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @onthedriftinthetardis for sharing her insights on being a photographer.  
> Chapters are named after airport codes.

_The large, multi-level pool stops just short of a rocky cliff that dips into the Indian ocean, but the turquoise shade of the chlorinated water creates a nearly seamless continuity. Only the white froth of the waves breaks the illusion. Soak up the sun and let your mind wander beyond the horizon._

Hannah dotted her sentence and flipped back through her notebook. She placed a check mark next to “pool” in her list of resort services and amenities to review.

Soaking up the sun and letting her mind wander wasn’t something she had time to do. This was actually her first time lounging by the pool and even now she couldn’t let herself go, couldn’t just close her eyes and enjoy the warmth on her skin. Her brain noticed every detail and translated them into sentences for her article.

In her job, she often did in one day what others did in three. In the last four days, she had tested the Aquatonic seawater therapeutic pool, four of the five restaurants, the art gallery and shopping arcade, the yoga class, the _Canang Ketupat_ demonstration, the Balinese dancing course, the cycling tour, the sailboat tour and the Segway tour. All the while looking into the eco-tourism aspect of things, she’d noticed the solar panels and the reusable straws in drink, but she wanted to dig deeper. She still had to check on the botanical garden, the activities for kids, the cooking school, the gym, the martini bar, ballrooms and, worse of all, the golf course. Only three days left to do all that.

Perhaps it was time to check out the rooftop bar as well.

A young man worked under the hut-like awning of the bar. He spoke basic English. As he prepared her cocktail, she chatted with him, asking about the band on his t-shirt and his hobbies. But soon, her gaze drifted away from the bartender and the beautiful beach vista, to the island itself, beyond the resort. Too far off for details, it appeared as a chaotic array of colourful houses under palm trees, quivering in the heat like a mirage. The Mahal Kita resort was nothing short of paradise, but her feet itched to explore the rest of the island.

She asked the bartender for recommendations, but he only mentioned activities offered by the resort. When Hannah insisted she wanted to see the town, he laughed, something she’d learned meant “no” here. She questioned him further and found out he wasn’t even from Pulau Kesuma and neither were his nearest coworkers. The employees lived in a dormitory on the premise and left the island on their days off.

As nicely as possible, Hannah insisted to speak to a local person to answer her questions. At last, a maid was waved over. She drew a crude map of the town with indications to the market and a beach. When she expanded her drawing to the west side of the island, the bartender stopped her with such vehemence that both Hannah and the maid started.

“No, no. No west. Dangerous,” he said.

The two Indonesian exchanged a cold glance Hannah couldn’t decipher.

“Okay, then I’ll be careful. Thank you…” She eyed their name tags. “Budi and Alya.” She tipped them both generously.

The hotel’s main entrance opened directly on the jetty where the ferry from Jakarta docked. With water on either side, there was nowhere else to go, so Hannah spent a good twenty minutes looking for another exit leading to the town. 

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. 

All the service doors required I.D. cards. Finally, she spotted a kitchen helper and asked him for a light for her cigarette, she offered him one in exchange. She’d found it was always a good way to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a foreign country. Or, in this case, to ask for a favour. The kitchen helper opened a service door and they sneaked out of the hotel.

Hannah felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass. Out of the conditioned and, she now realized, perfumed air of the resort, heat and a hundred scents assailed her: dusty earth, petrol from the old motorbikes used by the locals, and the sweet green fragrance of flowers that gave the island its name, _Kesuma_. A goat bleated. A bike zoomed past her. And wanderlust stirred butterflies in her stomach.

She donned a large, floppy sun hat and set out to explore new grounds.

* * *

“Let me the hell out of here,” Hardy said to a security guard.

Five minutes and he had already run out of patience with this place. Jet lag stretched like a tight rubber band around his head. He had a meeting in town with Ellie and her partner, but couldn’t figure out how to get out of the hotel. 

He’d arrived late last night, and the ferry took him straight to the resort. Aware of the scam, he hated giving the resort his money, but he had to be inside to investigate.

The security guard let him out a service door and vaguely indicated the direction of the market.

Hardy walked fast. His previous trips to other parts of Indonesia and Ellie’s instructions helped him navigate the unknown town.

The messenger bag holding his camera equipment bumped against his hip with every step, a sensation he’d grown accustomed to. Camera in hands, he was on the lookout for signs of the tourism industry already affecting the local population. On a street corner, a young woman, barely able to meet his eyes, lowered her dress and bra strap. Anger boiled in his stomach. He averted his eyes.

Along the way, he snapped pictures, almost aimlessly: crumbling houses, drunk men, working children. None of it exactly what he needed.

He knew he’d found what he he’d been looking for when he saw it: fishing gear propped against a wall. The composition was perfect: the sun shone on the shiny reels and the hooks dug into dry, cracked soil. The contrast between the fairly new equipment and the dust and spider webs covering it told a story of wasted potential. He took many pictures from different angles.

* * *

Hannah made her way toward the market as best as she could given the lack of street signs. She turned onto an unpaved narrow street. Small wooden houses crouched between tall palm trees and laundry hung to dry above her head. Women squatted in front of small brick fire places, cooking on a grill set directly over the flames. Chicken pecked around them. Bare-feet children, with dry snot under their noses, played with rusty bottle caps.

It reminded her of a trip to Thailand four years ago. She was no less shocked, and yet fascinated, that people still lived like that. But this time, the nearness of a luxurious resort accentuated her discomfort. And Hannah thought she’d rather be in Europe or North America where poverty wasn’t so confronting.

She felt the eyes of every local on her, they weren’t used to tourists yet. She had only seen one other white person, a weird bloke taking multiple pictures of fishing rods. Some children hid behind their mothers, others called her “Bule!” a slang word for white foreigner. But she never felt threatened or shunned, most people she came across smiled at her in the friendliest manner. She returned the greetings but didn’t engage further. There was always that push and pull within her, between keeping her distance from people and yet wanting to know them.

A girl of about nine with fierce dark eyes and braids approached her and touched her arm. Hannah smiled though she was ambivalent. She wasn’t naturally drawn to children but it would make cute pictures and a good story for her blog. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Hannah resented it.

“Where can I eat?” Hannah asked the child, miming the action.

Instantly, other children came to her, five of them, with dimpled cheeks and second-hand superhero t-shirts. They all giggled. The eldest little girl, the one who had approached her first, whistled loudly and they all followed her. Hannah had no idea where they were taking her.

Shrubs lined the street and a little boy picked a fruit and handed it to her. It was a small, pinkish ball with green hair. She scrunched up her nose at it and waited until the children had eaten theirs to make sure it wasn’t a joke. A boy, no more than seven, took a knife out of his pocket and expertly sliced open the fruit for her. Inside was a milky white ball, similar to lychees. As she tasted the fruit, her brain looked for the right words to describe the refreshing, mild sweetness of it to her readers.

The children gave her more fruits, and she thanked them in Indonesian, “ _Terima kasih_.”

“ _Rambutan_ ,” he said.

“ _Rambutan_?” she repeated.

He pulled on his black hair, “ _rambut_ ,” he said. Then on the hair of the fruits, “ _rambutan_.”

She snapped some photos of them and the fruits with her mobile phone. They all pressed around her, wanting to see the result on the screen. The photoshoot lasted longer than she’d intended. An adult passing by yelled something along the line of “stop pestering her”, and the kids scampered away. All of them except the little girl that had first approached her. In fact, she looked unimpressed by the adult. Hannah felt she’d found a kindred spirit in this kid.

They reached a sort of town square, with a mosque and a park where a group of men had gathered. A tin roof held up by hand-carved columns housed the market place. Hannah marveled at… everything. Behind makeshift stalls, men shouted prices for rice noodles and fruits. On the ground, large, shallow baskets displayed grains and legumes. An eyeless pig face, hung like a mask above a meat stand. Underneath, a bored woman wearing a headscarf chased flies away with a palm leaf.

The whole place was alive with chatter but a tension brewed underneath. Something was amiss.

Hannah wanted to go inside the market, but the little girl guided her elsewhere.

On a street corner, many local people queued. Before them, an old woman, at least eighty years old, hunched-back and sun-spotted, served food to them. Old, misshapen pans and plastic buckets surrounded her. Her knobbly hands efficiently wielded a string to slice through a green, cylindrical fruit. She then dropped handfuls of shredded coconut, balls of sesame seeds, and what looked like tiny pancakes onto a folded banana leaf. She covered carelessly the whole thing with a ladleful of brown syrup. It looked nothing like the “authentic and locally-sourced” food served at the hotel. And it was certainly less hygienic. But the scents— and her own sense of adventure— were too enticing to resist. She’ll try anything once.

* * *

Hardy spotted Ellie across the road, waving at him to come over. Her youngest son was with her.

“Hiya! Sorry for making you walk all the way here, we’re not allowed near the resort anymore.”

She gave him that grin of hers, with her small upper teeth pushing forward.

They’d first worked closely together in Bangladesh, after a sweatshop collapsed and killed over one thousand workers. She was a journalist for BBC World. It was her first time covering such a tragedy. Despite a rocky start, they’d developed something like a friendship, but it was hard to keep in touch when they both worked around the world. Last he’d heard of her, her husband had been arrested for murder

“You look well,” Hardy said.

It was an understatement. Her hair had grown, and her loose white linen shirt accentuated the healthy bronze glow of her skin. She seemed happier than he expected given the circumstances.

Beside Ellie stood a short man with a young, russet face, smooth skin safe for a little patch of hair under his bottom lip. He wore a suit despite the heat. He shook Hardy’s hand with nervous enthusiasm and introduced himself as Kadek Suardika Rahi.

They sat on the terrace of a restaurant. An outsider wouldn’t know this was a place of business: a dozen makeshift stools under an awning made from old vinyl advertising banners. In the heat, a rubber-y scent emanated from it.

Hardy was eager to learn more about the scandalous practices of the Mahal Kita Resort, but cultural norms demanded a beverage and small talk first. He opted for a cold drink made with coconut milk rather than the local variation on Java coffee.

“I met Kadek when I was covering the tsunami,” Ellie explained. “He was a doctor in England, but when he saw what was happening in his country, he decided to come back and help his people.”

“And Ellie helped make sure the natural disaster was not forgotten by the international community.”

They shared a smile and so much seemed to pass between them, reminiscence and adoration. And Hardy was surprised to feel a pinch in his heart, a longing for that kind of intimate language without words.

Hardy cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “So you live here now?”

“Not on Pulau Kesuma, no, not all the time. We live in Jakarta. Tom attends an international school there. Kadek’s whole family is here, though.”

She’d quit her job and now taught journalism at the university on top of helping local newspapers and free speech organizations.

“How’s your daughter?” Ellie asked.

“She’ll start uni next fall.”

He skimmed over the strained relationship with Daisy. He’d taken all the blame for the divorce, and rightly so, he had been away too often. His daughter had once accused him of caring more about children in Africa than about her.

A flash of blond hair and pale skin caught his eye. He scoffed at a young woman in too short shorts and a large hat. She didn’t even notice her selfie stick was in the way of a man and his cow. “Parasite,” he muttered. As far as he was concerned, these tourists were as guilty as the corporation who owned the resort. They should educate themselves and stop encouraging unethical tourism.

Kadek related to him what he’d heard from his family and other local residents. While the people were still struggling with the physical and psychological damage of the tsunami, foreign investors took advantage of the chaos to seize the land. Masked men, armed with machine guns, forcefully evicted the families. They built an electric fence around 400 acres of land. The land acquisition extended into adjoining bodies of water thus denying access to fishing grounds.

“It’s not just about the loss of income,” Kadek insisted, “we are a fishing people. This is our traditional way of life. Now we can be charged with illegal trespassing! On our own land!”

“What about the government?” Hardy asked though he had little illusion as to their role in this.

“The Navy helped the foreign investors,” Ellie answered. “At first we thought it was just a small part of the Navy gone rogue for profit. But when we petitioned the authorities for help we were shut down. They’re bloody shareholders.”

“Ellie received threats after she wrote about it in the Jakarta Post,” Kadek added, putting a protective arm around her shoulders.

The blatant abuse of power made Hardy’s skin crawl. 

“Do you have any proof of all this?” he asked.

“Only what people told us. The security guards at the resort know us. We can’t go anywhere near. They don’t like us sniffing around. That’s why we need you.”

Hardy, Ellie and Kadek spent the afternoon touring the island. They talked to evicted families and angry fishermen. Hardy documented the destruction, but the resort people were good at covering their tracks, most of it could be chalked up to the tsunami.

One thing that kept coming back was talk of discolored water that poisoned the mangrove, dead fish drifted to the village like bad omens. No one knew where it was coming from, but a portion of the west side was completely off limits, enclosed by an electric fence and guarded by armed men. Hardy couldn’t risk antagonizing them. Not yet, at least.

He ate supper with Kadek’s parents who welcomed him like a member of the family. He admired how Ellie had adapted and built a new life, a new family, for herself.

When the sun started to set, he left the Rahi family with a promise to help. Wherever he went, he met people who had almost nothing yet demonstrated such generosity. It both soothed him and stoked his drive for justice. And so, he headed back to the hotel to investigate under the cover of darkness.

* * *

Hannah stepped out of the shower and grabbed the complimentary bathrobe. She noticed its softness. One look at the tag informed her it was made of organic bamboo fibers. She made a mental note to mention it in her article along with the nice mango shower gel that now perfumed the steamy bathroom. These were important details. Her readers expected to learn everything about a hotel, including the quality of the clientele which is why there was a German man in her bedroom. Presently, she caught him hastily pulling up his trousers to sneak out. Shame passed quickly over his handsome face. 

“Maybe we can get a drink tomorrow night?” he said.

“Yeah, maybe.”

She was relieved he was leaving on his own so she wouldn’t have to get rid of him with increasingly unsubtle hints. It occurred to her after that he might be here with his wife and family.

She closed the door behind him and fell back on the bed. The room had a high, peaked ceiling made of dark wood and the dim light didn’t reach all the way up it. It looked like a void opening above her, growing as the evening turned darker.

Hannah reached for her phone. She sent Ben a text message, but doubted he would answer; he was sulking. She turned to social media. She posted a picture of the food bought in the market asking “what is this?”. She added a line about the cooking class she would take tomorrow and tagged the resort. Notifications popped up, but somehow only added to the oppressing emptiness growing in her chest. She dismissed the feeling as nothing more than her unsatisfactory hook up. The man had a nice body that promised more pleasure than it had delivered, leaving her keyed up.

Her hand ventured between her thighs. There was nothing but the sea outside her open windows, so she discarded the bathrobe, let the warm night air caress her body and set out to finish what that man had started.

“Hmm, much better,” she sighed after.

She cleaned up and wrapped a long sarong under her arms. Time to get back to work.

With her trusty Moleskin notebook in hand, she sat on the doorstep. A couple of rooms to her left, people were laughing and splashing around, but the sound of the surf, just a few meters ahead, interested her more.

Her pen moved fluidly across the paper, and she found herself writing about that little girl and the old woman serving food. She wondered about their paths in life, about one’s past and the other’s future. How different they were from her own life. She knew none of it would make it into her article, Elite Travelers wasn’t interested in that, but she felt compelled to put her complex feelings into words.

A flash of light disturbed her focus, followed by shutter sounds. She jerked up and squinted through the darkness. 

In the bushes, a man was taking pictures of her. How long had he been there? Had he seen her masturbate?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The man ignored her and kept taking pictures.

“Oi! Stop that, you perv!”

“Wha’? Get back in your room, ma’am.”

She hadn’t expected to hear a Scottish accent. He stepped closer, into the pool of light from her room. She recognized him from earlier in the village.

“Are you stalking me?” He looked at her like she was nuts. “Go away or I’ll call security.”

“Just get back inside. I’m a photojournalist.”

“What? For Playboy? Go. Away.”

“I can’t, I need—”

“That’s it, I’m calling security.” She turned to head back inside her room.

“For god’s sake. Wait!” He climbed the steps up to her. “The hotel management can’t know about this… I’m investigating the resort. Look.”

He showed her the pictures he’d taken: foundations and more brick work, the beach and swamps, portraits of local people. None of her. It was a relief (although having a stalker would be kind of flattering).

She took a good look at him: with his canvas shirt, sleeves rolled up, and scruffy cheeks, he looked overworked rather than like a relaxed tourist. There was something about his stance, the hands on his hips, the unwavering gaze on her, an air of detached authority that made her trust him. 

“Alright.”

“Good. So, you get back in there and let me do my work,” he said.

“Hold on, I’m a journalist too.”

He quirked an eyebrow, skeptically.

“I am. What are you investigating?”

With more probing—and threatening— he revealed, in vague terms, he was interested in the environmental impacts of the resort. 

“What about what’s going on the west side of the island?” she asked.

He perked up at this— as much as this man could perk up. “You’ve seen something?”

“Well, I went sailboating— ”

He scoffed.

“What’s wrong with sailboats?”

“Local fishermen were banned from their own ancestral fishing grounds so you could go on a bloody sailboat. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

The accusation stung. Hannah took a step back. “And that’s my fault, is it? You know, sharks almost went extinct here because of the fishermen.”

He didn’t reply, though she had the feeling it wasn’t because she’d won the argument. He obviously knew more than he let on. As annoying as he was, she wanted to know more too.

She invited him in her room, to show him something she’d discovered on her photos. During the sailing excursion, Hannah had spotted what seemed like a lovely secluded beach. However, when she asked about it to the captain, he immediately veered the boat away. That beach was on the west side of the island, the one she’d been warned against this morning.

She handed him her phone, but he frowned at the selfie displayed.

“No, look closer, you muppet, in the background.”

She zoomed in. There was a high fence, partly covered with vegetation, and what looked almost like a bunker.

“Maybe there’s another way in,” the photographer mumbled. “There are rumors about— oh...”

He’d swiped too far and reached a picture of Hannah in a rather revealing bikini. She tittered at his blush. He shoved the phone back in her hands with a scowl. He considered her for a moment. His sharp gaze openly scanned her, and Hannah became very aware that she was wearing only a sarong.

“Alright,” he said, having come to some conclusion. “Could you take me there?”

“Yes,” she replied with more confidence than she felt.

Hannah went to the bathroom to put on a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. She felt like she’d drank too much coffee. She was excited by the secretive nature of the investigation and the shared complicity with this photographer.

She slipped her phone and keycard in her back pockets, and they headed out through the patio door.

“I’m Hannah Baxter, by the way.”

“Hardy.” They shook hands. “C’mon, Baxter, stop withering.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulau Kesuma is a fictional place but what happened there after the tsunami is based on real events that took place in Sri Lanka.


	3. DPS - Indonesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardy and Hannah get in trouble while investigating on the beach and there’s some totally necessary touching happening ;) Also romantic plankton.

The sun had sunk halfway down the Indian ocean. On the beach, the hotel staff were retrieving lounge chairs and parasols for the night. Only a few couples lingered on the shore. The distant echo of conversation and clanking dishes came from the terraces of the hotel’s restaurants.

Sun-heated sand slipped into Hannah’s sandals and splashed against her calves. She removed her shoes and walked in shallow water instead. 

Hardy walked fast, ahead of her, as if ashamed to be seen with her, but he still sporadically checked on her over his shoulder. “Watch out, there’s a crab.”

They didn’t exchange more than a few words. She didn’t peg him as the small talk kind anyway, so she didn’t make an effort. He scanned the beach, eyes narrowed, serious dimples in his cheeks. He kept his hands poised on the camera hanging around his neck. This was no romantic stroll. They were colleagues, out on the prowl, chasing a scoop— and she loved it.

They were looking for that bunker-like structure Hannah had seen in the background of her selfie, from the sailboat excursion. Despite declaring she could guide him there, she had only a vague idea of where it might be located. Hardy had a real, old-school compass to guide them westward, but darkness would make it harder to find.

The main structure of the resort faded into impressionist patches of light. They still passed by smaller buildings— private villas, storage, kayak rental kiosk— but they were fewer and farther in between.

“I think it’s on the other side of that,” Hannah said. She pointed at a rock formation ahead. It was much taller than a human, came form inland and dipped into the sea, essentially blocking the whole width of the beach. She was no geologist, but it looked like volcanic rock to her, like fat rolls of lava descended from the center of the island. At low tide, barnacles and sea grapes clung to its side. A line of orange buoys extended from it, far into the sea to mark out the end of the resort’s beach.

By the time they reached the rock, only the full moon illuminated their path. Hardy shined a tiny LED flashlight over its surface.

Hannah thought she could skirt around it in the water and cross over the buoys. Hardy wasn’t too keen on trudging through water and opted to hike over the rock instead. Hannah walked farther into the sea. It was deeper than she’d anticipated. She was in up to mid-thighs before even reaching the buoys. She retreated and climbed behind Hardy. Her sandals slid over the slimy rock. He offered his hand. She held on to it tightly as he hauled her up on top of the rock formation.

“Wow!”

In the bay, on the other side, the shore sparkled with thousands of tiny electric-blue dots, like something out of a science-fiction movie. The ebb and flow of the water stirred and alighted them. Everything else around was dark.

Hannah grinned, in all her trips, she’d never seen anything like it.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Bioluminescent plankton,” Hardy supplied.

They climbed down the other side, his hand at her elbow in case she slipped.

“D’you think I can touch it?”

He shrugged. “It’s always in the water, you just don’t usually see it.”

She kicked off her sandals once more and tiptoed into the sea. She giggled like a child, each step generated more blue dots.

“It lights up when it’s agitated,” Hardy explained. “There must be some strong current around here.”

Hannah kicked the water, propelling a luminous arc of plankton in the air. She heard the camera shutter, and glanced at Hardy over her shoulder.

“Perv,” she joked.

He chuckled, and she wished she could see his smile.

“Why is it only on this side—eeww!”

Something slimy covered her ankle. Panicked, she kicked it off but lost balance. Hardy caught her in the nick of time. She grasped his shoulders until she was steady again, and then they hopped out of the water.

“Thanks,” she said out of breath, heart still hammering. His arms remained around her. “Christ, what was that?”

Hardy shone his torchlight on the water. There was a squid, dead, decomposing even. The flashlight revealed more dead fish floating on the surface. Hannah shivered with disgust and hid her face against Hardy’s shoulder.

“We must be close to something,” he said. “Bioluminescence can indicate harmful algae in the water.”

“You could have said before.”

“You alright?” He aimed the light at her legs.

“I’m fine.”

Truth be told, all she wanted now was to go back to her room and take a shower. But, remembering Duncan’s grating “stick to what you’re good at” comment, she persevered. A sigh puffed up her cheeks, and she took off after Hardy.

“Did you come here specifically to investigate?” she asked him. 

“Aye. A former colleague called me. You?”

“I’m working but I wasn’t sent here for this. I’m writing a piece on the resort for Elite Travelers.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “Thought you said you’re a journalist.”

“I am a journalist.”

He scoffed. “That’s a liberal use of the word.”

Hannah gaped in outrage. How dare he? Before she could reply, he started walking again, faster.

“And who do _you_ work for?”

“Depends.”

“Don’t give out everything, it’s embarrassing,” she said sarcastically.

“This is freelance work.”

“But who have you worked for before? Name one if you’re so much better than me.”

“The Broadchurch Echo… The New York Times.”

“Alright, well, it doesn’t matter, I want to expose this sham as much as you.”

“No.” He stopped walking, and she nearly bumped into him. “This is my job, my life, you’re just—“

“My readers will care.”

“Your readers?” he all but squeaked. “They’re the problem.”

“I’m trying to learn here, okay?”

“You gotta do more than that.”

“I just— Urgh! I don’t want to get too involved, people start expecting things from you and I can’t— I can’t do that.”

They started walking again. She thought he’d dropped the subject, but ten minutes later, he asked: “Who pays for your stay here? And the article you’re writing. Who’s paying you?”

“What? The magazine, of course.”

“Right, who’s paying them?”

“Do I really need to explain this to you? Subscriptions, advertisement…”

“The owners of the resort? The local government?”

“No, it’s not like that,” she replied.

“How can you be sure, uh? This, your magazine, your article, it’s nothing more than propaganda.”

God, that man was infuriating. But he had sowed doubt in her mind. Was that why Duncan didn’t want her to cover ecotourism? What if she was just a tool?

She breathed audibly out of her nose and stalked past Hardy. “I’m gonna find that bloody bunker,” she muttered.

Not long after, they saw the bunker-like building in the distance, inland. An industrial spotlight hung above its metal door. It cast an artificial white light over its surroundings. Flies and moths buzzed around it. There was one security camera too, and they tried to stay out of its scope.

“Out-bloody-standing,” Hardy whispered. He clapped her too hard on the shoulder. “You found it.” He raised his camera and took several pictures.

It was still almost ten feet away and then bushes blocked the path. As they approached, a sound of water, distinct from the waves, grew louder. There was some kind of river behind the vegetation. She rose on her tiptoes, to look over the narrow hedge. She couldn’t quite see the river and she realized this was because it was at the bottom of a ravine. The water was maybe twelve feet below, between steep walls of rock and soil. It created a natural moat around the building. There seemed to be no way around it, and the rest of the building was protected by an electric fence.

“What now? We can’t get any closer,” she said.

“Yes, we can.”

She watched, aghast, as he waded through the bushes to the ravine. What was he doing? It was too wide to jump over. He crouched on the edge. His foot slipped and rocks tumbled below with a delayed echo.

“You’re not thinking of climbing down, are you?” He didn’t answer. “Hardy?”

Hannah cursed under her breath and trudged through the thorny bushes. She shivered at the thought of all the creepy crawlies in there. When she joined him, he was testing the strength of a branch to rappel down the ravine.

“You’ll kill yourself,” she said.

“If that’s what it takes.”

They stared at each other, his eyes defiant. The color drain from her face.

“What?”

“Maybe if a white man dies people will finally care about what’s happening here.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm. “Oh no, you’re not doing this to me.” Hardy was in a too precarious position to resist her tug, but Hannah expected him to fight back. So she pulled with all her strength and weight, and they stumbled backwards. Her foot caught in a root. They fell to the ground, Hardy landed on top of her. His camera knocked her on the jaw.

“OW!”

His eyes widened. “Sorry.” He touched her jaw lightly, and it struck her how a man so careless with himself, could be so gentle with her. Their eyes met, and she became very aware of his body covering hers.

“ _Berhenti_! _Berhenti_!” yelled a security guard, running towards them. Their argument must have alerted him.

“Bollocks.”

They stood up.

The man’s cap flew off his head as he ran faster. They could outrun him for sure, but Hardy didn’t budge. The security guard was a middle-age Indonesian man with small sticky-out ears. Upon noticing they were not locals, he switched to English. “Stop! You cannot be here. Forbidden. You come with me.”

Arms crossed, Hardy towered over him. “What are you hiding, uh? Who are you protecting?”

“You come with me.” He grabbed a walkie-talkie from his utility belt, to call for back-up perhaps. He had a stun gun too.

“They’re destroying your island, your birthplace,” Hardy continued. “Report us to your management and this will go on. But we can help change this situation that’s—”

“Look, we were not doing anything wrong,” Hannah intervened before Hardy got them in trouble. She looped her arm through his. “Just wandering, exploring. It’s such a romantic place, we got carried away…” 

She fluttered her eyelashes at Hardy, but he made no attempt at playing along. The security guard lowered his walkie-talkie. 

“I understand it’s important that we don’t come here. I’m sure there’s a good reason, it looks dangerous. Really, it’s our fault, we shouldn’t be trespassing.”

Hardy finally looked at her, appalled by her apologies. Hannah continued, taking on a honeyed voice and offering her nicest smile.

“We don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? Be in trouble that is, if your boss knew we’d wandered all the way here by accident.”

It took a moment for Hannah’s words to sink in, after a few blinks, the security guard’s blank stare turned into a smile.

“Yes, yes. Okay. You leave, I”— he mimed zipping and locking his mouth— “no trouble for you. Thank you for me, okay?”

She nudged Hardy. “Give him some money.”

“I’m not participating in corruption.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She had a few Rupiahs folded in her phone case, and she handed them all to the man. “Can you show us the way back? I think we got a little lost. Thank you, you’re very kind.”

The security guard escorted them back to the lobby. The concierge noticed them arriving together, but the guard lied and said he’d found them lost. It reassured Hannah that he wouldn’t talk. Under no suspicion, she would be free to continue investigating. If only Hardy hadn’t gotten on his high horse, they could already have proof of the resort’s scam.

As they walked towards the south wing of the hotel, Hannah kept glancing at him expectantly.

“Wha’?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your arse?” she said.

“Sorry? Saving my arse! He could’ve helped us more if you hadn’t bribed him. If I’d had time to convince him—”

“Not with the way you were talking to him. You’re just so fucking condescending.”

He crossed his arms and clenched his jaw.

“So the hotel’s not very good for the environment. Is it really worth risking your life for?” Hannah asked.

He huffed impatiently and took her aside. He told her everything he knew: the foreign investors, the Navy evicting families, the corruption, the threats to his journalist friend, the destruction of mangroves and fields. It was so much bigger than she’d imagined. Overwhelmingly so. He told her about the Tirrand family. How the father tried to protect his farm and received five bullets to the chest. In front of his own daughter. Hannah thought of that little girl with the fierce eyes, dauntless now that she’d already seen the worst possible thing.

Hannah felt suddenly very cold. She cared about what had happened. And then she didn’t. She turned her gaze towards the window and the starlit sea.

“It would be a shame not to share such beauty with the world,” she said in a voice that seemed to come from outside herself. “I don’t like how it happened, but why should they keep this island to themselves?”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m just saying, what’s done is done,” she continued without looking at him. “They can’t go back, the resort’s built, might as well make the best of it.”

She was aware of the strain in her cheeks as she smiled.

“You need some rest,” he said.

What a pretentious wanker, she hoped to never see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you're not already following me on Tumblr, check out my blog for some visuals that go along with this fic (I'll make a moodboard for each of their destinations, and some gratuitous edits of photographer!Hardy): https://lostinfic.tumblr.com/tagged/travelers%20au


	4. SIN - Singapore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are worst airports to be stuck at, and worst people to be stuck with.

Airports are liminal spaces. A limbo of travelers, where one is simultaneously on vacation and not yet, or not anymore. Places of transition, between familiar and foreign, between reality and fantasy. Intermediate structures designed to efficiently direct the flow of resigned travelers and make them spend as much money as possible. 

Hannah stood still and let the moving walkway take her in the right direction. The rhythmic thump of the metal plates blended with the white noise of announcements in English, Mandarin and Malay. 

Between ads for designer perfume, slim windows offered a glimpse of the purple dusk settling over the runway. Airplane windows multiplied the sunset. Little lights dotted the black tarmac and twinkled evenly.

Every trip lingered like a ghost, following her all the way home. An unidentifiable yet recognizable scent on her clothes, a melody in her head, a taste she would seek out again, but never truly find.

Indonesia, she suspected, would linger even longer.

After Pulau Kesuma, Hannah had explored other parts of the country. But a nagging doubt, sowed in her mind by Alec Hardy, prevented her from entirely enjoying her trip. Every hotel she’d stayed at, especially in Bali, she feared had been set up in the same manner as the Mahal Kita. She noticed details she hadn’t before. These questions were most inconvenient as Hannah endeavored to see only the positive, the fun and beautiful things in life and share them with her readers and followers.

It would have been easier to dismiss these thoughts, hadn’t she looked up Hardy. He was credible, to say the least. A photojournalist featured in every respected periodicals, twice nominated for a Pulitzer prize. A well-traveled man, exposing injustice around the world one picture at a time. His most famous photograph depicted a woman setting herself on fire in the name of freedom. She wondered how he slept at night. 

She’d hoped leaving Indonesia meant leaving him behind too, as well as her doubts and mistrust. 

But fate had other plans in store.

He was here, in Changi airport, walking just a stone’s throw ahead of her. She recognized his beat-up camera bag, and his scruffy profile confirmed her suspicion. “Fuck.” Hannah turned on her heels and bumped into a pair of glaring, elderly sisters. She couldn’t walk twenty feet in the wrong direction on the moving walkway. Resigned, she faced the right way again, and, of course, that’s when Hardy noticed her. He nodded curtly.

A long, awkward travelator journey followed during which they pretended to look at anything other than each other, but their eyes met a few times.

She’d caught a flight out of Bali with a layover in Singapore. Hardy must have flown in from Jakarta or Sumatra, and would take the same connecting flight to London.

At the end of the moving walkway, she adjusted her pace to stay a few steps behind him. He put a stop to this nonsense and waited for her to catch up to him.

“You’re still alive, then,” she said by way of greeting.

“I’m very resilient.” They resumed walking towards their gate. “I thought you’d left already. I didn’t see you again at the hotel.”

“Did you look for me?”

He shrugged but he could have been just hiking his bag higher on his shoulder.

Hardy cursed, and she followed his gaze to the departure board: their flight was delayed. Technical difficulty, an airline employee informed them, no idea how long it would take, hours most likely. 

Hardy and Hannah sighed and looked at each other.

“Well, there are worse airports to be stuck at,” she said.

“Aye. Gatwick,” he said just as Hannah was naming that airport too.

“Ever been to Qatar? That airport is…”

“A bloody maze,” he said.

They shared a tentative chuckle. Given how they’d left things last time, she hadn’t expected they soon would be completing each other’s sentences.

She nervously swiped her hair away from her face. He winced at the fading bruise on her jaw left by his camera. She suddenly wished he’d touch it again.

“I… I’ve never seen the waterfall here,” he said, looking at his shoes.

“Me neither.”

“Would you…?” He tilted his head in the general direction of the famous indoor waterfall.

“Sure.”

Hardy and Hannah walked past the restaurants, shops, massage chairs and a movie theater on their way to the indoor forest. Many species of palms and flowers grew on five levels leading to a glass and steel dome that reminded her of the British Museum ceiling. The air was moist like in a greenhouse. Sprinklers hissed between the plants. It was night, so lights were dim, only art installations brightened the space: crystal clouds, silver birds, iridescent raindrops.

As they neared the heart of the forest, the waterfall came into view. The world’s tallest indoor waterfall, they called it the Vortex. The ceiling dipped like a funnel and water cascaded down into a pool. Gently phasing colors and shapes were projected onto it.

Jaw slack, Hannah stared. It was simply stunning. She took out of her phone. Now that was something worth posting about. 

After a few photos, Hardy sighed impatiently beside her, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he said, “you’re doing it wrong.” He placed his hands over hers to guide the lens at a better angle. “You want to frame it like that, about two thirds of the photo. And you want to catch the light here. Like that.”

“If you’re so good at it, why don’t you take them yourself? With me in them.”

She tucked her chin in her shoulder and smiled at him with fluttering eyelashes.

He rolled his eyes but agreed.

First she checked herself in a pocket mirror, fluffed her hair, wiped off flecks of mascara. “I look like shit.”

“Nah, you’re… okay.”

“Oh, thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically.

Hannah smiled at the camera and posed for a few more pictures where she gazed in the distance, exposing her best profile. Hardy demonstrated his professionalism, she wanted more photos from him, but decided not to test the limits of his patience.

“Why do you want pictures of that?” he asked when she took back her phone.

“Because it’s beautiful and unique. Why aren’t you taking any?” she replied. “I could pretend to be dying next to it. That’s more your style, isn’t it?” He frowned. She nudged him with her elbow. “Oh, c’mon, it’s a joke. Loosen up.”

He buried his hands in his pockets and shook his head slowly. 

“People tell you that all the time, don’t they?” she said softly.

“Aye.”

Hannah averted her eyes and fiddled with the strap of her purse. She hadn’t meant to insult him, in fact, she knew the feeling of constantly being told some “truth” by others.

“You know what I always get?” she began. “My friends say I don’t have a real job, that I don’t live in the real world.”

“I get that too.”

“Right? I mean, it’s not true. I’ve deadlines, and bills, I’ve even got a fucking life insurance. Traveling is the real world.”

Hardy nodded emphatically. “We see more of the bloody real world than them.”

“Yeah!” She smiled, glad they were hitting it off again. “Hey, did you ever find out what was in that building on the beach?”

As they walked up to the second floor, Hardy explained he met a man who used to be in the Navy and participated in the eviction of the families. That man had claimed the building was nothing more than a break room for the security guards. They might have stored booze there, but nothing more scandalous.

Hannah almost said, “good thing you didn’t kill yourself for that,” but knew better this time.

She had kept investigating too, after their night on the beach. But she hesitated to tell him because he might laugh at her strategy.

Hardy expressed some doubts about the man’s testimony, he’d heard rumors of holding cells and weapon storage, but he had no proof. “Can’t demand justice without photographic evidence.”

“Are you disappointed,” she asked.

He leaned on his elbows, on the banister, and looked at a janitor sweeping the floor below. Blue light passed over his features, undulating, as if he was underwater. After a moment, he said, “It’s complicated… helping people.”

She leaned on the banister too, next to him. He stared in the middle distance. She thought he would say more, she wanted him to. She wanted to know why he did it if it was so complicated.

“I kept investigating too,” she admitted, hoping it would cheer him up.

“Did you?”

“I went into town to find the bar where the staff hung out.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah.”

She was quite chuffed that she’s succeeded to impress him, or at least surprise him. 

At this local bar, she met a receptionist, Irene, she’d already befriended at the hotel. She was out with other girls who worked at the Mahal Kita. Hannah paid for food and beverages and asked questions that Irene translated. Two of them had witnessed the armed men evicting families. But they had more to say, namely on the new opportunities the hotel presented to these young women. Jobs other than fishermen's wives, meeting different people, learning another language…

“They’ll change their minds soon enough,” he commented. 

Hannah rolled her eyes. 

“I know, I know,” he said. “It’s another side of the story. One I didn’t get. Well done, Baxter.”

“Don’t look so pained,” she teased, bumping him with her shoulder.

“Are you going to write about it in your article for _Elite Travelers_?”

“Of course, my readers expect an honest review.”

“You think your magazine will let you?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He pushed himself off the banister with a groan.

They meandered through the indoor forest, along cobblestone trails that snaked and climbed around the waterfall, between ferns and shrubs. The place was quiet. Once in a while, they crossed other awaiting travelers who wandered around like lost souls. In the near-dark, their phones cast an eerie glow over their faces. Some had found a quiet spot to nap.

Hannah barely noticed them. She even forgot to takes pictures.

As keen travelers are wont to do, she and Hardy exchanged anecdotes from their trips: he was arrested during a protest in Ukraine, she was attacked by a cuddly manta ray in Hawaii, he met the Dalai Lama purely by accident in a bathroom, she sang karaoke with Sylvester Stallone in Tokyo. 

“You didn’t,” Hannah said.

“I did.”

“Nooo! You ate monkey balls?”

He shrugged, biting back a smile. “Not that bad. Mind you, my people invented Haggis.”

Hannah laughed. “And all that to see a cave. Was it worth it?”

“Aye. I was the first photographer ever down there. Got me on the cover of Nat Geo.”

“Wow, you must’ve been proud.”

Before she knew it, two hours had passed, her cheeks hurt from laughing, and she couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought him rude.

As annoying as this delay was, she was glad they were stuck together in Singapore. It seemed like neither of them was in a hurry to get back to London.

They’d reached the fifth and last floor. Here there was a park with slides and topiaries shaped like animals and cartoon characters. No child played there at this late hour, and only a few adults had come all the way up. One of the attractions was a long net crossing over the indoor forest like a rope bridge.

Hannah wasn’t normally prone to vertigo, but the net bounced with each step. She grasped Hardy’s shirt to steady herself. He claimed he had seen worse, but she didn’t miss the way he reached for the handrail.

They were in stitches before they’d even crossed halfway. Hannah fell, and fatigue hit her suddenly. She lay on her back. Little tremors of laughter still shook her chest. Hardy sat down next to her. The net cocooned her like a hammock, with the noise of the waterfall and the night sky visible through the glass ceiling, she could almost believe they were somewhere exotic. Almost. An announcement over the PA system disturbed the illusion.

“Any news from the airline?” she asked.

They both checked their phones for messages and the airline app. Still delayed.

Hardy crossed his arms behind his head, and she caught a whiff of his pine-scented deodorant. His ribs rose under his t-shirt with every breath. At first glance, with his scruff, he looked abrasive, but she was starting to know better. He smiled at her, and she became aware of something shifting in the air. She felt it deep within her, a warm tension, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Do you have someone waiting for you in London?” he asked. “A boyfriend or…”

“No. Who has time for that?” 

”This job will do it to you.”

“I supposed. I haven’t found a man who can handle what I do. Eventually they all want to tie me down to one place… I take it you’re free too.”

“Divorced.”

“Good.”

“Is it?”

“I was just thinking there might be something else we could do to pass the time…” She caressed a spot of skin exposed above his belt.

“Er, I… you— what?”

“Sex.”

“Now?” He looked at the open space around them. “I don’t think…”

Her face flushed with embarrassment and she sat up.

“Yeah, ok, no, don’t worry. Just asking for a friend.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Hannah was saved from further embarrassment when both their mobiles rang. Two seats were available on a flight to London if they could make it to gate 56 quickly.

They struggled to get up on the net, but once on solid ground, they scampered off towards Terminal 2.

They made it in time, and the attendant handed them their tickets after they’d shown their passports. Hannah walked behind Hardy along the bland corridor leading to the airplane, then down the rows of seats, and it quickly became clear that they would be sitting side by side.

For fourteen hours.

Fourteen hours to ruminate on why he’d turned her down.

Sure they would have missed this flight, but they could be shagging right now. She glanced at her watch. In fact, she could be orgasming right now. Her eyes slid over to him, to his knee and the long fingers tapping nervously on it, then up his leg and, yes, she did look at his crotch.

“D’you mind?” His voice was a mixture of irritation and amusement. Mostly amusement.

“Are you gay?”

He rolled his eyes and opened his laptop.

“Sorry.”

“I’m… flattered. Just not an exhibitionist.”

“What, you think I wanted to do it up there on the nets? There’s a hotel in the airport.”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

“So if I were to say, meet me in the loo in two minutes, you’d say no?”

She paused, eyes flitting to the back of the plane, but then he smirked, telling her it was all a joke. She shoved him.

“You’re so full of it.”

The plane started moving up the runway, faster and faster, until it took off. Hundreds of flights, and she still loved that airborne feeling.

They flew over the glass dome of the indoor forest. On the porthole glass, she saw Hardy’s reflection also looking out at the shrinking skyline of Singapore. Did he feel the same bittersweet nostalgia for a place they’d only just left?

He leaned on the armrest, towards her.

“Will you ever come back?” she whispered without taking her eyes off the window.

“Dunno… there are so many places to see.”

* * *

Just as Hannah crossed the doorstep of her flat, her phone pinged with new emails. She dropped her luggage and checked it immediately. 

One email, from her editor, Duncan, urged her to send the article on Pulau Kesuma as soon as possible so they could celebrate her promotion to senior writer. “If the article is good enough ;)” 

The second one, was from the communications director at Group Peregrine. Reading the email, she understood that company owned the Mahal Kita resort. They loved what she had done with social media during her stay and were already reaping the benefits. So, they wanted to create a partnership and send her to their resorts all around the world. “Namibia, Costa Rica, Fiji… where would you like to go first, Ms Baxter?”

A wide grin spread on her lips, and she bounced on her feet. A little squeak of joy escaped her throat.

A promotion and a partnership, now that was worth coming back to London for. Time to pop the champagne and buy a new suitcase. Already, she scanned her mental atlas for a new destination.

She was so excited, she needed to tell someone. She scrolled through her contacts: Ben was still sulking, she skipped her mother and sister, her father would be happy for her but still didn’t quite understand her job, Naomi she hadn’t spoken to since her wedding, Duncan maybe. She stopped at Alec Hardy (they’d exchanged contact information before parting ways). His questions about the magazine popped to the forefront of her mind: who paid them? Would they let her write the truth about the resort?

Hannah’s mood did a 180. Her stomach sank and her smile wavered. If he was right, exposing the truth about the resort could cost her this partnership and promotion. Was it worth it?

With a big sigh, she rubbed a hand through her hair and sat on the edge of her bed. 

She glanced at the stack of _Elite Travelers_ in her bookcase, hundreds of glossy pages displaying lavish hotels, private villas and suitably-authentic lodges.

Would writing about it _really_ change anything for the island anyway? 


	5. LHR - England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah's article is published and Hardy reacts to it.

In Covent Garden, the midday sun flared off the glass roof of the market. Hardy shielded his eyes. He hated London in the summer, hated the tourists, hated the heat, hated people playing bloody Frisbee in parks. He glared at a couple sharing an ice cream in front of him on the street, with a huff of impatience, he walked past them.

He reached the red mailbox on the street corner. He pushed a manila envelope through the slot like one rips a band-aid: quickly and holding his breath. Divorce papers, signed and sent. Time to move on. He rubbed a hand over the tightness in his chest. He knew the perfect antidote was work abroad. But until he received a new assignment, the next best thing was Stanford, the travel bookshop.

An enormous map covered the entrance floor of the shop. A memory struck him: Daisy, age six, playing hopscotch on the African countries. He smiled to himself. He would call her again tonight, even if it meant leaving another sappy voice mail. Perhaps she would want to come with him to New York in October. It would be nice to show her around. And, although he wouldn’t tell her that, he hoped she would be impressed by a whole exhibition dedicated to his work. He hoped she would understand he wanted to make the world a better place, for her.

He almost called his daughter right away, but he was in Stanford for a specific reason. Hannah had said her article on the Mahal Kita resort would be out on July 25th. “You were wrong,” she’d bragged in a text message, “they let me write everything.” He’d replied something that came out ruder than he’d intended, and he didn’t hear from her again.

As he headed towards the magazine display, he mentally composed a congratulatory message, “Let’s have drinks to celebrate”. He cringed. She wasn’t interested in him, she only wanted to have sex at the airport because she was bored.

In any case, first, he had to see this article with his own eyes. Part of him still doubted she’d gotten away with it, or had written it at all. He hoped she had. His own attempts at exposing the truth had come to nothing. Two newspapers had picked up the story only to replace it at the last minute with more pressing news. He was disappointed, but not surprised. He wasn’t giving up that easily. He still talked to Ellie and Kadek. He planned on widening the scope of his investigation by looking into other resorts owned by the same company, Group Peregrine. Meanwhile, Hannah’s article could reach readers he wouldn’t. People who directly encouraged these harmful practices in the tourism industry. She could open their eyes to the human cost of their vacations.

He spotted the latest issue of _Elite Travelers._ The cover featured a picture of the sea in Pulau Kesuma in oversaturated shades of blue. He baulked at the price and found a seat to read it in store instead.

The lede put him on edge right away. With each paragraph, his face grew hotter and his teeth ground harder.

He called Hannah.

“Hey, Alec! How—”

“You bloody liar.”

“What?”

“You said you would tell the truth in your article.”

“I did!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“You know what? It might not be up to your standards of exposing the truth, but it’s not that kind magazine, okay? I did what I could, but the rooms were nice, I had to say it.”

“It’s nothing but praise. Praise for criminals.”

“I get it, you’re a paragon of integrity and I’m a sham.”

“You lied to me. There isn’t a word in there about the environmental impacts or the fishermen.”

“Of course, there is. It’s right there in the lede. And there are at least three more paragraphs about it.”

“I’ve got your article right here, it says: From its unspoiled site to its respect of the environment, the Mahal Kita eco-resort is, simply put, flawless.”

Hannah fell silent. He heard her sniff, and his anger vanished.

“You okay?”

“I didn’t write that… It wasn’t me, that’s not what I wrote.”

“Seriously?”

“Keep reading.”

Hannah slouched down in the hotel armchair, closing her eyes to ward off the dizziness. Hardy kept reading the article. She recognized some of the sentences, but she’d reread the text often enough to identify the missing parts.

She was in Cornwall, covering a music festival, so she hadn’t seen the magazine yet. When Duncan hadn’t asked for revisions, she’d naively thought her article was perfect. No wonder she hadn’t heard back from him about the promotion.

“Baxter?”

“He fucking censored me… You were right.” She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.

She expected Hardy to gloat, but his voice was gentle when he spoke again, “I really wanted to be wrong.”

He stayed on the line with her, in silence, while she struggled to make sense of this betrayal. She hated Duncan so much right now, she could have ripped his head off.

Hardy told her he’d experienced censorship too. Back when Tony Blair had sided with George W. Bush about the Iraq war. An editor had cropped one of his photographs so as to leave only the angry, armed Iraqi men in the frame and remove the children they were protecting.

“I was furious.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I made sure the original photo was published elsewhere.”

“I just… it was important to me, you know? It felt like a big step in my career. Something different…”

“So, what are you gonna do about it?”

“What can I do?”

“You have to get that story out there.”

She could put the uncensored article on her blog and expose _Elite Travelers_ ’ dishonesty. But could she afford to antagonize her main source of income? Adios business class and exotic resorts.

“You would want to work for them again after this?” Hardy asked.

“It had never happened before.”

“That you know of.”

The moral decision weighed on her chest, pushing a deep sigh out of her. She didn’t want to deal with this right now. Arctic Monkeys would be on stage in 15 minutes, and she had a VIP pass. All she wanted was put on a flower crown, get drunk and dance with strangers under the sun.

“Would you like to go for coffee. With me. To talk about it,” Hardy said.

“No, thanks. I can’t.”

“Yeah, no, okay. Then—”

“I’ve to go. Bye.”

* * *

A week later, Hardy received a message from Hannah with a link to her blog called “Secret Diary of a Globe-Trotter”.

 _Secret?_ he texted back.

_It used to be a place to write anecdotes I couldn’t tell my father ;)_

She had posted her original article, nowhere near as scathing as it ought to be, but critical enough to put off some people. She also described the censorship and her investigation on Pulau Kesuma. She even mentioned him, “Alec Hardy, a remarkable photojournalist”. He thrust out his chest slightly.

_So what do you think?_

_You did the right thing_ , he wrote.

_I hope so. Still not sure about that._

With a fresh cup of tea, he sat on the narrow balcony outside his flat. He typed “I’m proud of you”, but changed his mind. He wanted to keep the conversation going.

_I can send you some pictures I took, if you want to add them._

_Of course! Will you publish them anywhere?_

_Expo in NY soon._

She sent a thumbs up, and he assumed that was the end of the conversation.

After a moment, Hardy gave in to his curiosity and browsed the rest of her blog. Among the clickbait-y articles (“Five booking hacks you’ll regret not knowing”, “10 sexy airport looks”) and sponsored posts, he found hidden gems: longer texts describing encounters with all sorts of people during her trips. She made these people talk about their countries and favorite, uncharted places. From a churros vendor with a surprisingly profound philosophy on family to an 80 year-old ballet dancer who aimed to dance on every street of Paris, by the end of the interview, they all opened up to her.

Rain enhanced the scent of fresh-cut grass and lulled him into a peaceful state as he read on. He hadn’t meant to spend so much time on her blog, he had work to do, but her words drew him in every time. As someone who used images to get his message across, he admired her use of language. Funny, incisive. Each paragraph a snapshot of humanity.

He felt on the verge of understanding something about Hannah, like a word on the tip of his tongue. An elusive quality that explained why, on principle, he should be more annoyed by her than he was in reality. She kept proving him wrong. In fact, what annoyed him most was how quick he had judged her.

Over the following weeks, he checked her blog every once in a while. He told himself it was to take stock of the responses to the censorship. And if he happened to look at her latest photos at the same time, well, it was purely out of professional courtesy.

This was how he found out she would be in New York around the same time as him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on a trip for 3 weeks. I'd love to post another chapter during that time, but I'm not sure it's realistic. I will try. Thank you for your patience :D  
> ETA: I managed to write a new chapter before leaving, and I will post if about halfway through my trip to tide you over until my return.


	6. JFK - New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah visits Hardy's retrospective exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI Hannah's friend Erin is a character I made up, so don't worry if you don't recognize her from Secret Diary.

_New York, Fall_

Hannah was too fond of clothing and accessories to be a minimalist packer. She kept her wardrobe well organized, divided by climates and types of activities, but used creativity to select the right clothes. It was an art. One that began with a theme, a story she wanted her pictures to tell. (She’d once packed only retro-inspired clothes for a long weekend in Paris during which she visited movie-famous locations.) And since, on a cruise, hauling a heavy suitcase around wasn’t an issue, she may have gone a little overboard (pun intended) with the nautical theme: white and navy stripes, tiny anchors, big anchors, sailor collars, mermaids...

“I have nothing to wear,” she whined, dumping half her suitcase on the floor of her cabin.

The ship would dock in Manhattan soon, and she still hadn’t found the perfect outfit to go to Hardy’s photography exhibition. She needed an outfit that looked irresistible yet like she hadn’t made an effort at all. 

The whole thing was ridiculous anyway. The cruise line had given her a choice among four destinations and ten dates— she could have gone to Alaska!— but she’d chosen a place she’d already visited on somewhat inconvenient dates in October, just on the off chance she might run into him. He didn’t even know she was going to be there. She couldn’t decide whether to tell him. Whether she wanted to see him again. She didn’t usually keep in touch with people she met abroad. The moments they shared were perfect as they were. Meeting again just wouldn’t be the same. Why ruin a perfectly good memory?

But Alec…

She’d said before she wanted a man who would challenge her, but parachuting or strange foods was what she had in mind, not ethical dilemmas.

At least she had a fantastic leather jacket.

* * *

Hardy felt like a stalker— no, stalkers must enjoy doing this, and he did not. Checking Hannah’s Instagram for her ship’s itinerary, and now scouting the Manhattan docks, looking for her, like a lonely sailor, it made him cringe. He paced the sidewalk, reminding himself he’d been in worse situations than waiting for a woman he fancied.

He shifted his weight and huffed with impatience. Another batch of passengers came out of the cruise terminal, and he scanned their faces.

She didn’t know he was here, and if they met, she would never believe it was a coincidence. Still, he’d brought his camera along to pretend he was working, maybe on documenting the negative impact of the cruise industry— way to insult her work again. 

Hope fluttered in his chest at the sight of every blond head, so he stayed despite anticipating humiliation. 

He walked the length of the dock four times. Eight ships had docked today and more were coming by the looks of it. Tourists streamed out of the cruise terminal, too many to check all their faces.

He glanced at his watch and cursed. He had an interview in half an hour in Lincoln Square. He was in New York to talk about the people he’d photographed, he reminded himself, a second chance at helping them. He wasn’t here to chase after a woman, no matter how adventurous and beautiful.

He gave the port a last longing look.

Probably for the best. Surely, if she was coming here at the same time as him on purpose, she would have said something.

* * *

The World Press Photo event took place in Brooklyn whereas the ship docked on the west side of Manhattan. It didn’t look that far on the map but, once again, Hannah had underestimated distances in America. Google Maps informed her it was an hour-long public transport journey to the building where the conference took place. They docked at 10am, and she had to be back on board by 4pm. What kind of cruise stays only six hours in New York but stays overnight in Nova Scotia?

She was familiar with the subway from previous visits, and seamlessly joined the crowd on the platform. She wore her headphones even if her music barely pierced the metal grinding of the old subway cars. She tapped her foot, at first to the beat of Lana Del Rey, but then out of nervousness. What would she even say to him? _Oh, hi, funny meeting you here at your own exhibition_.

By the time she walked out of the subway station, her skin was clammy and smelled of rust and other people’s sweat. An autumnal breeze refreshed her and chased dead leaves around her feet.

She washed her hands and face, sprayed some perfume on her neck and shook her hair for volume. With a sigh, she blew a strand off her face.

Beside the door, a banner announced: “Alec Hardy, a retrospective”. A black and white portrait of him, with a hand tugging back his hair and an annoyed look on his face, told visitors he didn’t appreciate having the viewfinder turned on him. The lights and shadows in the picture revealed his physical flaws: the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, freckles on his cheeks and nose, even some greying hair at his temples and in his beard. She only ever used black and white to hide a too-red face or unflattering light. He didn’t hide anything, and the photo was stunning.

She read the short biography next to it. Forty-two years old, ten years older than herself. She filed the information away. Everything else she knew from looking him up already.

In the high-ceilinged, white room, his photographs, in various sizes, lined the walls and hung from the ceiling to create corridors.

Hannah scanned the crowd of art students, photography enthusiasts and other conference attendees with lanyards around their necks. She didn’t see him, and couldn’t tell which of relief or disappointment swelled in her chest.

The exhibition began with Alec’s early work on the streets of Glasgow in the 90s: poverty, union strikes, and the punk scene. Domestic moments caught through dusty windows, spike-haired lovers in a park, and children playing among burning rubbish bins. She smiled at a self-portrait, his reflection in a broken mirror, an old Leica covered half his face, wire-frame glasses and smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette covered the other half.

Political protests and revolts followed. From Ireland to South Africa. He’d been right in the eye of it, among the armed men, the bleeding noses and mouths shouting for justice. In the rage and lust.

Hannah walked from one to the other, heart beating fast as if watching an action movie. How many times had he been threatened? Held at gunpoint? Kicked and punched? He really made a habit of putting himself in danger’s way. His recklessness scared her, in a good way.

His later work shifted away from the action towards the devastation left in its wake. Destroyed villages, grieving families, scarred men, empty-eyed women. More children featured in his photos. She recognized Pulau Kesuma: a pile of discarded monogrammed hotel towels among flowers, new fishing gear left to rust, an old man with the sea etched on his skin. With every picture, Hannah’s heart grew heavier. By the last photo, tears threatened to ruin her mascara. And yet, something in the way he showcased sunlight gave her hope.

Hannah rounded a corner and gasped: there was a photo of her. Taken at night, darkness hid her face, but she recognized her leg kicking an arch of bioluminescent plankton. She raised her cell phone to take a picture of it and share it on social media, but changed her mind. She looked at it closer. She wasn’t used to seeing herself through someone else’s camera. An image over which she had no control. A moment of unstaged spontaneity. She wasn’t used to feeling humbled. She watched other people’s reaction to it. They didn’t know what it meant.

The picture of her was part of a special section dedicated to his more artistic work. Random snapshots he’d never dedicated an entire series to before now. Breathtaking landscapes, powerful oceans, a colorful Indian wedding, elephants in Thailand, coal-smeared Congolese children smiling bright, several photos of a baby girl. Through his lens, even the streets of London became poetic. And she thought that pain and misery did not diminish the beauty of the world, if anything, the fact that people endured and kept laughing and creating, was all the more wondrous because of it.

Hannah went around the room a second time, always on the lookout for Hardy. She did a double-take at every brown-haired or bearded man, only to be disappointed. Before she knew it, she’d spent more time there than at the Louvre. She lingered in the building for as long as she could, visited the other exhibitions, but had to get back to the port soon. She decided to write a message in the guestbook, leaving it up to fate whether he would see it.

Outside the building, golden sunshine trickled between fiery leaves and alighted every raindrop falling across its beams. Umbrellas bloomed and children laughed, and Hannah was keenly aware that each person around her had their own story, their own unique perspective on life.

Like light shining through a prism, daily life was dissolved into millions of shades by the people experiencing it.

Hannah walked two subway stations farther, fascinated by the city thrumming with life around her.

To capture that variety, she used to write in-depth articles about encounters with one, single person. She’d gradually abandoned those in favor of shorter pieces, marketing disguised as personal anecdotes for the attention-deficient social media users. Perhaps she should write one again.

She smiled at the young latina woman walking her dog, but only received a wary look in return.

* * *

Hardy was never entirely comfortable during interviews. He didn’t trust his words and tone to come across well on paper. His photographs were always more eloquent than him.

At the end of the interview, as he shook the journalist’s hand, dissatisfaction reared its ugly head. He should have insisted on practical solutions rather than on problems, and he shouldn’t have let him ask so much about his personal life. Hardy had no interest in justifying his choices, he got the work done, did his part for global justice, that’s what mattered.

He mulled this over as he joined the Manhattan foot traffic. He had to do better next time, insist on the situation in Indonesia.

He walked in no particular direction, bound to come across a subway station eventually.

A London accent halted his brainwork. Against his better judgment, he looked around to find the source, but it wasn’t her. 

He was now in the middle of Central Park and had no idea how he’d gotten here. He breathed in deeply the scent of soggy earth and tree sap. Tempted to steal a moment of contemplation, he sat on one of the dark green benches and just watched the world move around him. 

In his mind, Ella Fitzgerald sang _Autumn in New York_ , and the leaves around him took on the colors of brass instruments. He lifted his camera to capture it while humming the tune to himself. He couldn’t remember the exact song lyrics, only the air. Something about Spain and canyons of steal... A metal plaque on the back of the bench— “To Anita, with all my love”— jogged his memory.

 _Autumn in New York brings the promise of new love_. He scoffed. He was done here.

Hardy returned to the conference center. A blue-haired volunteer stood up as soon as she saw him enter. On the first day, she’d said she was a fan of his work, which Hardy found hard to believe.

“Lots of visitors to your retrospective today, Mr. Hardy,” she said. “Lots of messages too.”

She pushed the guestbook under Hardy’s nose. He didn’t usually look at this, but he gave it a cursory glance out of politeness.

His heart skipped a beat. He put on his glasses and looked closer at the message.

_Amazed and shaken to my core._

_Hannah Baxter_

She’d come here. When was her ship leaving?

* * *

The strange hyper-awareness followed Hannah on board the cruise ship, but morphed into introspection once alone in her cabin. Seeing Hardy’s journey made her consider her own.

When asked why she started traveling, she always told the same story. She, Ben and Erin formed an inseparable trio of best friends in secondary school. They dreamed of backpacking through America and Asia. Once in university, they kept postponing their plans for all sorts of reasons. 

Unfortunately, Erin died abruptly during their second year. Realizing how short and unpredictable life is, Hannah had packed her bags and left England.

It was a nice story, but it wasn’t the whole truth. She never said how her friend died, that she left even before the funeral, that she stayed too long in Amsterdam to numb her guilt, that there was a reason she didn’t keep in touch with the people she met while traveling.

The rocking waves failed to lull her to sleep. She nearly called Hardy twice, but her longing scared her. Her emotions felt too close to the surface, too easy to bruise.

She wrote all night and deleted the file in the morning.

They docked in Boston next. She filled a travel mug with black coffee and headed off the boat with every intention of being her former, professional self. She hadn’t even posted on Instagram yesterday. It really was for the best that she hadn’t encountered Hardy. They had shared a moment in Asia and that was the end of it. She had to focus on rebuilding her reputation after what happened with _Elite Travelers_.

Outside the cruise terminal, where buses awaited passengers for day tours, the marketing liaison waved her over. Before she’d even said hi to him, someone else called her name.

“Baxter!”

Her heart melted.


	7. BOS - Boston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah receives a surprise visit in Boston, and things heat up...

He couldn’t believe he was doing this again: waiting for her, unannounced, in front of the cruise terminal. In Boston, today. But it was different because she’d gone to his exhibition in New York and wrote a message in the guestbook, and that knowledge emboldened him.

He zipped his North Face jacket up to his chin against the cold sea breeze. And waited.

Finally she came out, leather jacket, pink travel mug and hair in lazy curls.

“Baxter,” he shouted, his voice betrayed his excitement, and he immediately buried his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual air. With a head tilt, he beckoned her closer.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him then narrowed to a furrowed brow. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t look as happy to see him as he’d hoped. His stomach clenched. 

“I hitched a ride with a mate,” he said.

“To come see me?”

“Nah, I’m a Red Sox fan.”

Sarcasm to muffle his beating heart.

A small smile appeared on her red lips which she hid behind her thick tartan scarf.

“Miss Baxter!” An Asian man jogged up to them. In his white and aqua tracksuit, the cruise line colors, he looked like a figure skater. The too-wide smile and forced eye contact betrayed his marketing position even before Hannah introduced him. 

“Jeffrey Allen, the marketing liaison on board. And this is my— photographer, Alec Hardy.”

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” Jeffrey shook his hand with too much enthusiasm. “Now, Miss Baxter, Mr. Hardy, Festival Cruises is happy to provide its esteemed guests with complimentary shuttles to the heart of historical Boston. You will be boarding one, yes?”

“Actually, we—” Hannah began, but Jeffrey pushed her towards a big charter bus. With mild panic in her eyes, Hannah grabbed Hardy’s sleeve and tugged him along.

He followed her to the very back of the bus. She slouched down, pressing her knees against the seat in front of her. She apologized for yawning, she hadn’t slept well.

“Sea sick?”

She shrugged. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your whole life’s online.”

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet?”

“That’s right, you didn’t post about seeing my expo yesterday. Not good enough for you?”

She toyed with the lid of her travel mug, twisting it left and right, then taking a sip.

“So you saw my message in the guestbook.”

“I did.” 

“There was a photo of me in your exhibition.”

She sought his gaze. She wanted him to say more about the photo. One photo out of fifty. Aesthetically pleasing. That’s all. Or so he tried to convince himself. Her eyes mirrored his own anxious expectations. He wished she’d say more about his exhibition. What did she think? Why did she feel shaken? 

She looked away first, bit the corner of her thumb nail. She flipped back to teasing.

“Besides, you need to pay if you want exposure on my blog.” She bumped him lightly with her shoulder.

He had this feeling again, of something on the tip of his tongue, something about her that escaped him every time.

Jeffrey came on the bus too, and they both groaned at the sight of him.

Yesterday, she’d skipped a special shore excursion to visit the World Press Photo event, she suspected Jeffrey would try to oversee her work today.

The man sat beside her across the aisle and monopolized her attention with talks of museum discounts. She listened with a tight, polite smile.

Hardy observed the other passengers, most of them silver-haired, carrying canes and walkers. It wasn’t adding up. He and Hannah may be very different types of travelers, but from her articles, he’d gotten the impression they both preferred to avoid the main tourist attractions to experience local culture. She ate street food, talked to people, danced to their music. This didn’t seem like her no matter how much they paid. But then again, he shouldn’t believe everything he reads online.

“Didn’t think you were the senior cruise type,” Hardy said, interrupting Jeffrey.

“I’m looking for a husband,” she joked.

“Preferably one on the brink of death?”

“And who loves to travel.” 

She grinned, and his stomach unknotted.

“Well actually,” Jeffrey began, unprompted and unwelcome, “the average age of cruise passengers is lower than you would think.” He lectured them on the advantages of sea travel for the whole family. 

Hardy rolled his eyes.

“I like to think of it as sampling the best of each port of call,” Hannah summed up.

“While dumping a ton of waste in the harbor,” Hardy said.

Jeffrey squinted his eyes at him. “You’re not one of our esteemed guests,” he realized. 

He would have thrown Hardy off the bus if it weren’t on the highway. Hardy couldn’t care less, but Hannah’s glare stopped a lecture of his own.

“Don’t make me lose this job too,” she whispered to him.

Soon, the shuttle stopped near a visitor center. Mid-morning Boston was busy and cloudy. the scent of last night’s rain hung in the air, pigeons bathed in puddles. Shop windows sported pumpkins, real or painted or fashioned into garlands.

Hannah wanted better coffee than the one on board and headed for a coffee shop chain to refill her mug. Hardy coaxed her instead towards a local place advertising Fair-trade coffee.

Seven years ago, he’d photographed children harvesting coffee beans in terrible conditions. Seven years later people still didn’t care. Perhaps if he’d stayed in New York he could have convinced a few more people to choose their coffee brand wisely.

He’d meant to pay for Hannah’s beverage— an indication of his intentions— but work had clogged his mind again, and he found her handing him a cup instead.

They stood on the cobblestone pavement, unable to settle on an activity to do, neither wanting to make a decision the other might dislike. They had both been to Boston before. “As you wish,” was uttered more than once without any action following.

Hardy ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight. Now that he was in front of her, he didn’t know what to say. It had seemed so easy in Singapore.

“I should probably get some work done,” Hannah said. “Check out a few landmarks, take some photos… “

“Right, yeah, don’t want you to be in trouble with Jeffrey. Sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

Jeffrey interrupted them once more, coming out of the visitor center with a handful of brochures. He was really pushing for Hannah to join one of their guided tours.

Hardy opened a rideshare app on his cellphone. He had to drop by his friend’s place first, get his overnight bag back, but he might make it to New York City in time for Alys Tomlinson’s conference.

“Are you alright?” Hannah asked with a frown.

He hadn’t noticed Jeffrey’s departure.

“I know it’s not your thing, if you’d rather go…” she trailed off.

“Do you want me to?”

“I suppose not. Look, once that’s out of the way—” she waved the brochures— “we can go somewhere nice, yeah? Hang out.”

Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but there was a light dancing in her eyes as she said this, things promised but unspoken. His heart sped up like a puppy’s tail.

Hardy grabbed a random brochure out of her hands: the Freedom Trail. He studied the map. “This way.” He hurried away with long strides. “C’mon, Baxter, before Jeffrey comes back.” She laughed and caught up to him.

The trail started in Boston Common. In the park, ancient elm and oak trees fanned out their shades of red and orange. Dead leaves crunched under Hannah’s ankle boots as they walked amongst morning joggers and giggling preschoolers. They picked the shortest way across the park, took a wrong turn and ended up at the Frog Pond. The water surface reflected the cloudy sky, still but for the brush of weeping willow branches. Their pace slowed to a stroll.

“What did you mean earlier, about losing your job?” he asked.

“Well, I lost my job at _Elite Travelers_ because of you and your bloody work ethic.” She poked him in the chest, and he crossed his arms.

After she’d followed his advice and exposed the magazine’s censorship, she was fired. That was only the beginning. Every other media part of the same conglomerate shunned her too. Magazines, newspapers, websites and TV shows she’d worked with before, now didn’t reply to her emails and phone calls. A secretary she’d befriended finally explained HR had blacklisted her.

As for hotels, anything part of Group Peregrine, the Mahal Kita Resort owners, became off-limits too.

“Don’t blame me for your shitty boss,” Hardy replied, though he did feel a smidge guilty.

“I know, I was taking the piss. I thought I could be like you, you know. That it’d be good for my reputation, I’d be credible, get more interesting assignments.”

“You did it for the wrong reason.”

“Alright, don’t worry, I did it for the people of Pulau Kesuma too. It can be both. I just mean I thought good deeds were supposed to be rewarded.”

“Give it time,” he replied lamely.

The cruise line’s offer was the first she’d received in weeks. They needed her to rejuvenate their image. “And I’m always up for a challenge,” she said, and he smiled at her determination.

“But you don’t like it.”

“I prefer to focus on the positive aspects.”

“Thought you were a journalist.”

“Exactly. I’m neutral. Just because something doesn’t appeal to me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t appeal to someone else.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Really, I thought you’d argue more.”

He would have, but he was trying to make a good impression.

He told her he’d sent her article on Pulau Kesuma to Ellie who had translated it in Indonesian for the island population. “The maids you interviewed asked about you. Did you stay in touch?”

“They did?” She smiled, genuinely touched. “I haven’t… I meant to… did you stay in touch with anyone?”

“I try… I’m not great at it. I tell people letting me take photos will help, I give them hope. I have a responsibility to see that help through.”

“I don’t think I could ever do that. The responsibility…” She blew out a puff of air.

“It’s not all bad. I lived with this family in Kuwait, about— well, early in my career. I was young, the mother she fussed over me. She still writes to me. Yesterday, the youngest son had his first child, and they sent me a picture.”

He showed her the picture, saved on his phone, of Omar with a baby in his arms. Hannah leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Her weight against him made him forget what he wanted to say. She glanced at the photo, then looked up at him.

“You’re a good person,” she said.

He shrugged, embarrassed. He never helped as much as he wanted to, but it felt like false modesty to say so. In fact, the retrospective of his work in New York made him uneasy, and he was relieved to escape it for a day. But he knew he should have stayed to talk about the issues he’d photographed rather than go and have fun.

He was about to offer they sit on a bench and he’d buy her a pastry to apologize for her lost job, when he spotted Jeffrey, in his bright suit, on the other side of the carousel.

“I bet he’s spying on me,” Hannah said in a whisper. “We have to shake him off.”

They slowly backtracked and hid behind the trunk of a large tree.

Hardy looked at the Freedom Trail map. “We need to head that way, but he’ll see us. So we take this road to go around and exit the park.”

“Ok. Got it. Ready?”

Hannah grabbed his hand, and it surprised him so, he froze. She tugged on his arm. His legs remembered how to move, and they made a run for it. They dashed from tree to tree, laughing.

He’d once done the same to dodge bullets. This was much more fun.

Once they’d put enough distance between Jeffrey and themselves, they slowed down and Hannah let go of his hand.

They exited the park and reached the next stop on the trail, the Granary Burying Ground. Samuel Adams and Paul Revere were both buried somewhere beneath the time-worn tombstones. Neither Hardy nor Hannah could remember what made these men famous. As they kept walking, Hannah read out loud about the landmark while Hardy guarded her from colliding with anyone. 

Two more landmarks and Hannah realized she’d forgotten to take photos for her blog. Hardy took hold of her camera and swiftly snapped photos of her in front of an old brown-brick building.

“Oi, I wasn’t ready.”

“It’s called street photography.”

They strode the streets, still looking over their shoulders for Jeffrey. The imaginary threat pushed adrenaline through their blood. They slalomed between tourists. Their breaths came quick and cloudy.

Old State House.

Quincy Market.

Hardy took shortcuts through private properties. “The trick is to look like you know where you’re going.” She found it thrilling. Their eyes gleamed, their cheeks flushed.

Paul Revere’s House.

Old North Church.

Inevitably, they talked about US politics, but also about history and their work. What they said didn’t matter. They were like two dogs sniffing and chasing each other. A test of sorts. A trial run.

The few women he’d been with since his separation— accidents, convenience— they didn’t feel like this. The gravitational pull of Hannah threw him off course. She tugged at the very center of him. He knew, and perhaps she did too, that they were on the edge of something great. Something all-encompassing. There would be no going back. But parts of her were wild and unknown. Like a wounded beast hides in the shadows. And so he photographed her, as she walked, as she curled her hair around her finger, as she looked at the city. Moments, seconds, like puzzle pieces that might reveal her heart to him. A hint to give him the courage to step over the edge.

In an hour, they reached the last stop on the trail: the Bunker Hill Monument. They stared at the towering granite obelisk.

“I prefer the ones in Egypt,” Hardy said.

Hannah wanted to climb the 295 steps leading to the top. The view would be worth the effort, but a sign by the door warned people with heart conditions. He stalled.

“What are you afraid of, old man?” Hannah teased.

He bristled at that. He couldn’t tell her about his pacemaker precisely so she wouldn’t overthink the age gap and see him as old and sick.

“I’m not old, I’m experienced.”

She snorted a laugh. “At least you’ve still got all your hair… For now.”

“I’ll show ye, Baxter.”

He opened the door to the obelisk and let her go first under the pretense of chivalry.

A narrow spiral staircase led to the top. Humidity beaded on the cool stone walls. By step 60, they started building up a sweat and gradually shed layers: scarf, coat, jacket, collars were opened.

Over the weeks, Hardy had grown accustomed to the foreign object in his chest, but now his hand flitted to his heart every minute.

“Are you alright?” Hannah inquired, noticing the gesture.

“Fine. Keep going.”

“I need a rest anyway.”

Pity. He gritted his teeth. How could he hope to ever get back in the field if he couldn’t even climb a couple hundred steps. No one would pause for him Syria.

“You’re wearing a suit.” Hannah observed now that he’d removed his windbreaker.

“That bad? I had it for the conference.”

“No, I like it. You made an effort.”

She slid her fingers along his collar to straighten it.

“I almost brought you flowers too,” he said and immediately regretted it— she would think he’s old-fashioned. 

“Next time,” she replied with a teasing smile.

That affirmation spurred him on. He resumed climbing before he’d caught his breath. Two steps at a time. Proving a point. His heart raced but at a steady rate. The pacemaker held on.

“295!”

The top of the obelisk was a tight space of gray brick, with only four tiny windows under a high, peak ceiling.

Hardy sagged on the sill of the closest window, and Hannah squeezed next to him. She raked her hair back from her forehead, sending a whiff of floral shampoo his way. 

Their panting breaths on the glass fogged the panorama. Hannah drew a smiley face with her fingertip and gave it a little beard. She grinned at him.

The fog faded and they stared at the Charles River and its cable bridge beyond the tiny squares of brown bricks. There were other windows with a different vista, but Hannah was here, honey eyes on the horizon, skin flushed with exertion, warm against his sleeve.

They talked in low, dreamy voices about the highest places they’ve visited: the Petronas towers, a volcano in Hawaii, Lake Titicaca, a rooftop bar in Hong Kong, a suspension bridge in the Alps. Up in the clouds, where humans seem small compared to nature and one’s life inconsequential.

They shared a bottle of water, and only moved when other people arrived.

Hannah begged him to let her take a good photo this time. She meant one over which she had control.

“The light’s rubbish in here.”

“I trust your skills. Just let me fix my face, must be all shiny.” She pulled a pocket mirror out of her purse and dabbed her forehead. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have washed my hair.”

“Don’t worry, you look great.”

“Really?” she asked coyly.

“You know you do.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you agreed.”

“I came all the way here, didn’t I?”

“For my pretty eyes?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“So, are we ever getting to Fenway Park?” he asked with feigned impatience.

“Knob.”

He’d been called that before, but never this fondly.

Hannah reapplied red lipstick. As she smacked her lips together, she glanced at him over the mirror. A sultry look that roused butterflies in his stomach.

He couldn’t tell whether she was serious or messing with him. She’d been straightforward about sex in Singapore, if she still wanted him, she would simply say so, wouldn’t she?

He raised the camera, and, with practiced ease, she flashed the smile he’d seen many times before on Instagram. He didn’t care for it. After a few poses, she asked him to join her for a selfie and his indulgence stopped there.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.”

Hannah had a list of trendy restaurants in Boston, and he already dreaded the place she would choose. He scowled when she guided him towards a tiki bar, but the restaurant she wanted was at the back of it.

“Half my job is knowing the coolest restaurants.”

“At least Jeffrey won’t find us here.”

Large garage-style doors opened on a courtyard, ensconced in climbing ivy, where small fireplaces and blankets kept the clients warm. It smelled like Guy Fawkes night and camping, green and smokey.

They arrived past one o’clock, tail end of the lunch rush, so a table was available. They sat at the corner of the table to see through the archway offering a view of the river.

The sun had come out, Hannah traded her scarf and leather jacket for a blanket loosely draped over her arms. She wore a tunic underneath with a wide boat neckline, and he was struck by the desire to cover her neck with kisses.

He pulled himself together while the man-bunned waiter explained today’s specials. Hannah asked the waiter what he recommended, and soon they were talking about the creative process behind the menu and his vision for the future of catering. She was fishing for some quirky details to share on her blog, and it fascinated Hardy, her easy smile, the effect of her charm on other people. And on himself. He was just one of many. She returned her attention to him, and the misgivings evaporated. 

“Sorry about that. I’m all yours now. What will you have?”

Wherever he traveled, he ate the food laid out in front of him, pigeon stew or roasted guinea pig, he made do and thanked his hosts, and yet in Western restaurants, he became picky. Here, the menu offered only six meals, each one elaborate. Hannah couldn’t decide between duck arancinis and wild boar noodles, and thus his dilemma was solved; he ordered one of the two so she could taste both. They ended up eating out of each other’s plate, a level of intimacy he hadn’t expected to reach so fast.

The coziness of the setting enveloped him. The excellent food, the laughter. He wished the afternoon would never end, but she had to be back aboard the ship at 4pm. 

The ticking clock boosted his courage. He touched the tattoo on her inner wrist, a simple black outline of a star or flower, he couldn’t tell. “What’s the story?” he asked. It was a blatant excuse to touch her, and they both knew it. Keeping his thumb there, stroking the delicate skin, filled him with a heady sort of audacity.

“It was supposed to be a compass. Never pick the cheapest tattoo parlor, it’s cheap for a reason. The bloke got bored halfway through, didn’t even write the cardinal points. I used to add them by hand.” She laughed then lowered her eyes. “My best friend, Erin, she got the same so I never had the heart to have it changed.”

“Erin? Is that your friend who passed away? The one you wanted to travel with.”

“Yeah… I was just thinking about her yesterday, your photos they… stirred things up.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, she stroked her collarbone as her eyes flitted between him and the river. He wanted to take a photo to study later and decipher. 

“Anyway, how do you know about that?” she asked.

“I read your blog.”

“All of it?”

“You sent me a link.”

“To _one_ article.”

Her knees rested against his under the table. 

“You’re a great writer.”

“Really?” she asked, this time no coyness colored her voice.

He leaned on his elbows, towards her, and told her about the articles he’d preferred. The things he’d learned even about cities where he had been. He didn’t feel as out of his depth now, it was professional almost, except their legs were brushing together and it sent a thrill up his spine. 

She had written less in-depth articles in the last year as her followers favored shorter pieces with many pictures, and affiliated links generated revenue. She confessed she missed it, sitting with one person and having a real conversation and then finding the words to convey the moment to her readers.

They ordered deserts, despite feeling full; it was a day for gluttony. She insisted on feeding him a piece of pumpkin pie. 

She was a great conversationalist, always a funny quip or an unexpected question. She wanted to know people. Yet, when the tables turned, she used humor and flirting to deflect. 

He thought of developing photos in a dark room. She revealed herself slowly, like an image in the tray of developer chemical. But if a photo was left in that chemical too long, it turned black, and so did Hannah eclipse herself if pressed too much. However, it was in Hardy’s nature to persist, to question, to get to the heart of things. Of people.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Boston.”

“Fair enough.”

“Kind of silly, isn’t it?" she said. "I mean we obviously— I think— wanted to see each other. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Hannah’s hand was so close to his. Her pink fingernails scratched at the buttons on his cuff. He opened his hand: an invitation.

“I’m glad I came here today,” he said.

“But you haven’t seen the Red Sox.”

“I’ve seen everything I wanted to see,” he answered, looking into her eyes.

His hand was still splayed opened, and he waited with a lump in his throat. She looked at him as if assessing his honesty. Finally, she slipped her fingers into his palm, and he closed his hand over them. Hannah smiled and tucked her chin in her shoulder closest to him, as if trying to hide her joy.

“I’m glad you came too,” she admitted in a quiet voice.

Affection overwhelmed him, and he impulsively kissed her forehead.

They ordered cups of tea, and continued holding hands as they drank. Her touch warmed him more than Earl Grey.

Clouds drifted in front of the sun and a cold breeze swept the courtyard. Hannah shivered, and he pulled the blanket higher up her shoulders. She caught his hand so his arm remained around her.

He glanced at her lips, within reach, parting delicately, her half-closed eyelids, and he knew she was going to kiss him.

“I’m not…” he began, compelled to warn her but not sure what about.

“You’re not what?” she asked with an amused lilt.

_I’m not good at this. I work too much. I shut myself off to the people I care about. I fucked up my marriage. I can’t give you what you need._

Hannah’s expression turned to one of concern, so he pretended to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

His cell phone rang. “I have to get this, it’s my daughter.” He rose and stepped away from the table. His thoughts were scattered. He took a second to regroup before answering. Daisy was coming to join him in New York in two days, and she had some last-minute questions about packing.

While he talked on the phone, Hannah went to the restroom.

* * *

He was a dad. She’d imagined him as this free spirit, roaming the world, hurtling towards danger to save women and orphans. But he was a _dad_. She didn’t want to be a step-mother. They were ugly or cruel or evil. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t deal with a teenager. No way. And with the ex-wife— no fucking way.

Why was she even thinking about being a step-mother? This thing with Alec, it was just a fling. Would be a fling. Nothing more. Whenever she slept with a man abroad, she made a point never to see him again after. Hardy was no exception. She wouldn’t see him again and certainly never meet his daughter.

An impatient knock on the door startled her. She quickly pulled up her pants, though she couldn’t remember if she’d peed or not.

As she walked back to the courtyard, Hannah observed Alec who was lost in thoughts. Why did his sad eyes make her want to blow him so much?

She could have kissed him hours ago— should have— but she’d enjoyed the slow blooming of it. The way her touch rippled through him. He was so starved for it, he didn’t even know. Yet he held back, and she couldn’t understand why. 

“I’m not with her mum anymore,” he said as soon as he saw her. “Divorced. There’s no going back after what happened.”

If she asked what happened he would tell. He would open up to her. She didn’t ask.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t know you have a daughter.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to keep it from you. Can’t believe I haven’t mentioned her.”

“So you’re a daddy, that’s kind of hot.”

“No.” He inspected her, a wrinkle deepened on his brow. “Did you want to go?”

She was still standing up behind her chair.

Alec paid for both their meals, and then there was nothing to do but leave. She asked him to walk with her to the visitor center where she would catch the shuttle bus back to the ship. She wasn’t ready to part from him yet. The closer they got to the visitor center, the heavier her heart felt. Alec’s eyes were on the ground with serious dimples in his cheeks. She wanted to say something clever and flirty to lighten up the mood,

They rounded a corner and saw the big white charter bus, with Jeffrey standing beside it. They backtracked a little, just out of his sight, under an old-fashioned lamp post.

Once again, they stood face to face on the pavement, without knowing what to say, but for entirely different reasons now. 

“I should let you go,” he said even as he stepped forward, closer to her.

Those eyes of his were on her now, wide, almost pleading. He made her feel so warm and soft inside, pliant, in a way she didn’t recognize about herself. 

She stepped closer too. 

She’d made her desire abundantly clear, twice he’d turned her down now, the ball was in his court.

Hesitantly, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw, and she could have melted in that touch. 

He straightened his shoulders, and she sensed he’d come to a decision.

“I can’t leave without kissing you...”

“Go on, then.”

He laughed at her impatience. A deep breath, and he dipped his head to kiss her. Just a brush of lips at first, enough to send sparks through her blood. The day’s energy finally released. His fingers carded through her hair, her arms wrapped around his waist. The kiss deepened, and she felt it to her toes. People walked around them and leaves twirled in the wind, and they kept kissing. It was a day for gluttony. She gorged herself on every bit of lust, sadness and hope.

Hannah kept her eyes closed and Alec rested his forehead on hers. She felt peaceful and high-strung all at once. She relaxed her fists that were clenched into his jacket.

He sought her mouth again, with more confidence, hands splayed over her ribs, wide and steady.

Engine noises alerted her to the shuttle about to depart. Hand in hand, they walked over to it. In front of the door, he pulled her into a hug. His windbreaker crinkled under her cheek. 

“I wish I could take you on board,” she whispered against his neck.

“I can be a stowaway, I’ve done it before.”

She chuckled and they kissed again, holding each other close. Jeffrey cleared his throat pointedly.

“Where are you going next?” Alec asked.

“Portland, Maine. Why? Do you have another mate you can hitch a ride with?”

“I could find one.”

“It’s a date, then.”


	8. PWM - Portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cider and confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol drinking, mention of suicide (past event, no details), message me on Tumblr if you need more info or want to know which bit to skip.
> 
> A/N: Hardy’s stowaway anecdote is inspired by something that happened to photojournalist Paul Conroy (you can hear him on the podcast “10 frames per second” episode 50, around the 10min mark, the whole episode is really interesting)  
> Also, I can’t believe I missed an opportunity to write Hardy and Hannah visiting my hometown.

With a dreamy sigh, Hannah flopped down on the single bed in her cabin. In her mind, she replayed the day’s events, every little touch, every hint in his words, and, of course, that kiss. The phantom pressure of his lips lingered on hers, his taste too.

Through the porthole window, the sunset painted the wallpaper in shades of orange.

Her mind wandered to Portland tomorrow. And maybe he’d meet her in St. John too, then Nova Scotia— she grabbed the itinerary off the bedside table— Charlottetown, Gaspé, Saguenay, Montreal. She kicked her feet in the air, biting her bottom lip over a smile to contain a squeal.

What if he couldn’t find a ride to Maine? Would he go as far as renting a car or taking a bus to meet her? She grabbed her phone to ask him, but stopped herself. If he didn’t make it, she’d get on with her work. No biggie. She was on this cruise in a professional capacity, and lately she’d been remiss in her duties.

With that in mind, she opened her computer and uploaded the pictures taken by Alec during the day. Many were blurry or unflattering. Of course, he’d captured homeless people and signs of gentrification. But also beautiful moments and architectural details she hadn’t noticed herself. She reread the Freedom Trail brochure and couldn’t remember half the landmarks mentioned. In fact, she didn’t have much to say about Boston as she’d been more interested in her companion. Even now, whenever a photo reminded her of a moment they’d shared, she forgot her work.

“Stop it,” she told herself

She was too distracted to write anything. She felt like she’d drank ten espressos. She had better channel that energy towards more active tasks. New tactic: focus on the cruise experience instead of Boston.

She changed clothes, fixed her makeup and headed for the dining room even if she wasn’t hungry. She snapped photos of the meal and of the strangers at her designated table. Her day in Boston had put her in such a good mood, her smile came easily and helped her get what she needed. She rounded up the youngest persons on board for a group photo around the karaoke machine. She convinced a bartender to let her mix an aesthetically-pleasing cocktail. “You can name it after me,” she told him. Then she hunt down the cutest crew members to take selfies with them. Two hours later, she held the building blocks of an enticing narrative.

When she sat down, she felt relief in her legs. She was in a hurry; she needed Jeffrey to see her posts and their success tonight or else he might not let her go off freely with Alec tomorrow. She edited the photos, thought of clever captions and hashtags, agonized over emojis and used every trick in her bag to generate interactions with her followers.

She uploaded one photo taken by Alec at the top of Monument Hill. She wrote his name to give him credit and discovered he had an account. It had only one photo, posted three years ago, still, it was an official, verified account. She anticipated teasing him about it tomorrow and giggled. She clicked “follow”.

She’d sneaked two photos of Alec when he wasn’t looking— street photography, he’d called it. She debated whether to post one. She wanted to tell everyone this man, this kind, talented, world-renowned photographer, had chased after her. That he’d ditched his own expo to surprise her in Boston. It was a good story. Romantic. Flattering. On brand. 

Too close to her heart. 

She kept the photos for herself, saved them on her phone.

Every minute, she refreshed her profile page, intent on answering comments in a timely manner. There was something addictive about the notifications popping up. Most of all, she took satisfaction in inspiring others to travel and discover new parts of the world.

Before she knew it, her mind had wandered again to Alec Hardy and his toe-tingling kisses. Even that forehead kiss, the tenderness of it had given her butterflies.

She groaned. “Just shag him already. Get him out of your system.”

Waiting for comments wasn’t active enough. She tried writing about Boston again, but mostly alternated between the same five tabs in her browser. She read her emails. She even replied to some girl named Bambi who wanted to know how to become a travel blogger— anything to keep her mind busy.

* * *

Hardy caught an early Greyhound bus from Boston to Portland. He left his bag in a locker at the station. He hadn’t yet decided whether to sleep in Portland or go back to New York tonight— Daisy’s plane was scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening. He hadn’t decided but he hoped to stay the night in Portland, with Hannah. If he could travel from one port to the other by bus, so could she. That is if she agreed to forgo the cruise ship luxuries for one night.

Heavy fog surrounded the port, and Hannah walked out of it like an apparition. Matching daft smiles appeared on their faces. She wore more makeup than yesterday and a cute skirt with a fishscale pattern. She’d made an effort for him. And here he was, in a worn-out wool jumper. 

After a moment of uncertainty, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“No Jeffrey?” he asked.

“I had a meeting with him over breakfast, he thought I’d done excellent work yesterday.”

“Congratulations.”

“I convinced him people of my generation prefer discovering a city by themselves, so we’re free to go.” She grinned.

Near the cruise terminal, in an outdoor marketplace, artists and farmers readied their displays and welcomed cruise passengers. They sold their goods from small wooden stalls, each one with the exact same spots of paint rubbed off for a vintage look. Hardy despised the fake, mass-produced feel of it. Local councils paid for cheap new things that looked old while withdrawing funds meant to preserve historical sites.

“I love this,” Hannah said, “local products, and people learning old, traditional crafts. Oh, look at this!”

She showed him a dream catcher with dollar-store feathers, made by a very Caucasian man, and, worse of all, a bloody Buddha in the center. A rant boiled up his throat, but Hannah burst out laughing.

“I’m taking the piss. Your face is so red!”

He huffed and puffed and finally laughed too.

Silver jewelry caught her eye. She held up two pairs of earrings, asking for his opinion as if the choice was specifically to please him. She sure knew how to keep him on his toes. 

He’d brought his own camera this time. Photographing her gave him something to do, occupied his fidgety hands who would otherwise belie his nonchalance.

They walked around. Hannah talked to nearly everyone. She sampled the food, complimented the artists, and whispered funny comments about the dog-hair purses and phallic sculptures.

“She’s big on the Internet,” he would sometimes say before taking a photo.

“You’re not allowed to make fun of social media anymore, I know your dirty little secret,” she said.

“Wha’?”

”You have an Instagram account.”

“I don’t.”

She showed it to him on her phone. “After all your moaning. You’re such a hypocrite,” she joked.

Tess must have set it up, she had sometimes handled the marketing-side of things. He didn’t want to explain that to Hannah right now.

“Fat lot of good it did me. How do you even know if it works? When you post about the cruise, how do they know they’re getting a return on their investment?”

As they walked from soap makers to glass blowers, she explained the business of statistics, tracking and hit counts. She mastered online marketing. Yet Hardy wasn’t convinced (which may have to do with the fact that web advertising was killing newspapers he used to work for). He didn’t voice his thoughts, he was still trying to make a good impression, but his face betrayed his opinion.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Hannah said. “You've published a book, right?”

“Two.”

“Well, I’m going to post about them— pro bono.”

“How generous,” he deadpanned.

“Your sales will go right up, and then you can buy me a drink,” she said with a cocky smirk. “But, er, just out of curiosity, how much are they on Amazon? Because I do earn a small commission—”

“Don’t link to Amazon, link to the publisher.”

“Oh. Alright. Deal.”

They shook hands.

“It’s not about the sales,” Hardy added. “It’s about letting people know what’s happening in the world.”

“I’m not sure how I can measure that.”

They stopped at a stall held by two middle-aged women and their shepherd dog. They owned an orchard out of town and made all kinds of apple products, including cider. It was only their second year in the business. Hannah inquired about their decision to quit their jobs to buy an old orchard. Her charm may have gotten them extra samples of cider and pastries, but it wasn’t fake, she took a genuine interest in their journey. She radiated such warmth; Hardy put an arm around her waist, and she stopped mid-sentence to smile up at him. She returned the embrace. Perhaps people around them thought they were a couple, and he didn’t mind at all.

Hannah bought a couple of bottles, she couldn’t decide which flavor to pick.

From the port, streets went uphill in every direction. They picked one at random to explore the city.

They walked hand in hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, even with Daisy.

“So, tell me about being a stowaway,” she asked.

It took him a minute to remember mentioning that yesterday. “That was when I wanted to get into Iraq, before the Americans got there. Early 2000s. I went to this wee desert town in Eastern Syria. It’s right on the banks of the Tigris River, Iraq’s on the other side. But to cross the river I needed an official paper from the _mukhābarāt_. I was there for weeks, with about 40 other journalists, queuing at the office everyday for the bloody paper. We were going barmy holed up in this god-awful hotel with nothing to do but drink and get into fights.”

“Why were you fighting?”

“We’re action people, we got antsy with nothing to do,” he explained. “Anyway, one day I had enough.” He shrugged as if the rest of the story told itself.

“You decided to hop on a ship and cross the border illegally?”

“Aye.”

“Oh my god, how did you do that?”

“I kept watch of the port from my hotel window for a few days. Slipped in at night. Nearly broke my neck jumping over shipping containers. My taxi driver knew a lad, he agreed to turn a blind eye if I could make it to the boat— I don’t think he believed I could make it. Then I hid under fishing nets.”

The scent of rotting fish had permanently etched itself into his brain then. Whiffs from nearby fishing ports made the memory even more vivid. 

He’d nearly drowned that night; he’d jumped overboard when an unexpected patrol boat approached. Otherwise the innocent seamen would have been in trouble because of him. He withheld that from Hannah. He wasn’t proud of having put them in danger.

He told her more stories of illegal crossing and trespassing. She questioned him about some of the photos she’d seen in New York. She was impressed he owned a bulletproof vest. And perhaps he exaggerated his courage to see the awe on her face. Still, he skimmed over the gory details of barbed wire-torn flesh and guards chasing him. 

He used legal channels as much as possible, but when he knew the truth— _the_ photo that would expose it all— was within reach, nothing could stop him. 

He spared a thought for the people who lead him to borders, lent him tools, sheltered him or opened doors they shouldn't. They believed in him and his work, and they risked far more than he did.

“I hate Tony Blair as much as the next guy, but I can’t deny his minister of foreign affairs saved my arse a few times.”

They’d wandered in a residential part of town. Between squat 70s bungalows with pick-up trucks remained some Victorian houses with wrap-around porches and steep, many-gabled roofs. Hand-painted signs and American flags swayed in the wind. Sun-faded plastic flowers stuck up from neat lawns. Seagulls screeched, circling in the cloudy sky. 

The sounds of waves and drafts of salt and seaweed sailed over the residences. Hannah wanted to go on the beach.

“Thought you’d have enough of the sea,” he remarked.

“No, actually, it’s really annoying that I’m on the sea all the time, yet I haven’t been on the beach once since the beginning of my trip.”

They walked farther, keeping an eye out for a path leading to the water without success. The coast was off-limits, private property all of it. Hardy ranted about access to water as a fundamental right and capitalism laying hold of nature.

“So what are we going to do?” Hannah asked. “Trespass?”

“Aye.”

* * *

Like any seasoned traveler, Hannah’s Turkish cotton scarf doubled as a blanket (or beach towel or skirt depending on the destination). They wrapped it around their shoulders and sat on a large rock, smoothed flat by centuries of tides.

The sand was the color of stone turned to dust. The ocean lapped quietly at the beach. A rocky breakwater advanced in the ocean. Weather-worn white fishing shacks rested on stilts at its tip. Shy sunlight streamed through the fog and revealed sailboats gliding in the distance.

Her hair, lifted by the breeze, tickled his cheek.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Hannah carried a bottle opener at all times in her bag. She handed him the bottle of classic hard cider, and kept the maple syrup-flavored one for herself.

“It’s 10am,” he said.

“I’m still on London time.” She winked.

“You’ve been here five days.”

“Six. I arrived a day early in Washington,” she said.

He chuckled and drank. The crisp, tart taste fizzled on his tongue.

“Anyway, that’s what traveling is all about, yeah?” she said. “Appreciating the good things in life: food, the sea, men...”

_Men. Plural._

She drank as her sight roamed the horizon, then settled back on him.

“One man,” she amended and quickly turned her eyes and drank again. 

This was hard for her, he realized.

“Baxter.”

She looked back at him, he gently pushed the cider away from her mouth and kissed her. She smiled against his lips, maple-syrup sweet. 

“To the good things in life,” she said, raising her bottle for a toast.

He wished he’d eaten more than a gas-station sandwich for breakfast, he already felt tipsy. Or maybe it was Hannah’s presence.

“You’re a positive person,” he said, “that’s good.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, a ray of pure, fucking sunshine, me.”

“You don’t think so?”

“It’s a choice, you know.”

“To be positive?”

She inclined her head, left and right, undecided. “… to only seek what’s beautiful and pleasant… and avoid the rest.”

“The rest? You mean what’s sad and ugly.”

“Yeah. Misery. Or just boring. Or anything that might cause that.”

The way she toyed with the tassels of the scarf and drank too fast told him she was nervous. He was on the verge of learning more about her. 

“Why did you make that choice?” he asked carefully.

A motorboat passed by, sending stronger waves that crashed at their feet. Pebbles rolled with each ebb and flow.

“I’m going to need another one.” She opened a second bottle of cider, and they shared it. “My friend Erin, she didn’t just die— she ended her own life.”

“I’m sorry.”

He opened his arms. She rested her head on his chest, rubbing her cheek against the wool of his sweater.

“She was my best friend, I’d known her for years, and I didn’t see it coming. At all. How could I not—” her voice thickened with a lump in her throat, and she stopped talking.

“People are unknowable,” he said.

“Are they? How could I be so blind to her pain?”

“People you think you know can hurt you in ways you’d never imagined— or surprise you, I suppose.”

“You must have seen a lot of that in your work.”

“Yeah, in my work.”

“I thought I was doing this for her. If she couldn’t see all the beauty in the world, then I would make sure I did. But…”

“But?”

“I’ve been saying that for so long, that I’m doing it for her. But the truth is, for years I didn’t think about Erin. Not really. It’s when Anthony Bourdain died— I had such a crush on him— last year, was it? It got me thinking again. I’m not sure anymore why I do what I do.” She drank again. “Fuck, sorry, I’m ruining our day with my tragic back story.” She rolled her eyes and tried to laugh. 

She looked so tired suddenly, her energy drained by the effort of translating long-buried feelings into words.

“It’s alright.”

“No, c’mon, this place is beautiful, and we’re together…” She hugged him tighter.

“Look, you avoid the unpleasant things. But I don’t, I run towards them.”

“Are you saying you’ve never been more attracted to me?”

“No, I, er, prefer when you smile.”

She smiled, then, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, he felt like he was melting a little inside. He cupped her cheek and kissed her temple.

“You must think I’m silly. You’ve seen people go through much worse,” she said.

“That’s not how it works. Grief is grief.”

She searched his face, a light line formed between her eyebrows. The more she observed him, the more he realized he was an outlier in her life. The opposite of what she sought. She probably only ever fucked fit surfers and trust-fund playboys. He was on thin ice. But she’d confided in him, that must mean something.

“Why do you do it?” she asked.

“Duty? Justice?”

“Do you ever stop thinking about the people in your photos.”

“If I don’t, who will?”

“How’s that working out for you?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Not sure anymore. I should’ve become a copper like I wanted to when I was a wee lad, I’d have real powers.”

He rested his cheek atop her head and they contemplated the ocean. Light bounced off the waves and danced on the surface like silver northern lights.

With a flip of her hair, Hannah was back to her usual, carefree, self.

“Well, you know, sometimes policemen and politicians or whatever, their hands are tied, and they need someone like you to trespass and show the world what’s going on.”

“And people need you to dream a little.”

“Exactly. Yin and yang.” She gestured between the two of them.

And for now, he could pretend it was as simple as that.

He brushed the back of his fingers tenderly down the side of her face, from cheekbone to chin. 

His yang. His light. 

Hannah kissed the pad of his thumb, and when she opened her eyes, there was a sultry look in them, directed at him. He brushed her lips and they parted for his touch. The tip of her tongue teased his thumb, sending a shock wave of arousal through him. He grasped the nape of her neck and crashed his mouth to hers. His own forcefulness startled him, but she moaned and clutched his sweater. 

Hannah rubbed her nose against his jaw, her soft sigh brushed his neck, and she whispered, “Do that again”.

As they kissed, he slipped a hand inside her leather jacket. It inched over her hip, along the curve of her waist to her ribs. His fingertips met the bump of her underwire, and he stopped himself. But Hannah pushed his hand up to cover her breast, squeezing it over the bra cup. His whole body surged like a wave, rising and pressing against her. He kneaded her breast, felt the nipple harden in his palm, and a moan went up his throat. 

He abruptly broke up the kiss.

“We shouldn’t out here...” he trailed off, panting, though his hand remained on her breast.

“Since when are you afraid of anything?”

Her bright gaze challenged him.

Recklessness he’d felt before, but this time it hailed from self-indulgence.

He reclaimed her mouth, pushing until she was on her back.

“Yesss.”

His kisses were ravenous now, ascending her jaw and neck, he would lose himself in her fragrance and warm skin. In her pulse beating under his lips. They both needed it. Respite from heartache. Oblivion in lust.

She arched her back to meet his touch, and he delved under her shirt. His cold fingertips trailed up her stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake, to slip inside the lace of her bra. He softly bit her nipple over her t-shirt, her initial yelp turned into a moan. 

Hannah bucked her hips against his leg, pressing into his groin in the same movement. She sought his skin under his sweater. Her nails down his back made him swell inside his pants.

He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, her swollen lips and dark eyes, her disheveled blond hair splayed across the scarf. She held his gaze as she ground against his thigh.

His touch glided over the satiny cotton of her leggings. Up her legs, under her skirt. He caressed her inner thigh, hesitating rather than teasing.

He hissed when she palmed him over his jeans. A pressure that was both relief and torment. She sucked on his bottom lip as she stroked the outline of his cock.

“All of this for me?” she asked in a husky voice.

He loved her selfishness, her unapologetic pursuit of pleasure. And maybe it was time he admitted that for all his talk of duty and justice, he was addicted to the pursuit, the challenge, the adrenaline.

He cupped her sex. Even through layers of clothes, he felt her hot and tender. Ready. His thumb blindly rubbed into circles until a sharp gasp indicated he’d found the right spot. He pressed into the seam of her leggings.

He craved those keening sounds she made at the back of her throat, her mouth so open and delicious, her eyelashes fluttering with each assault of pleasure.

“I need more,” she whined.

But dark clouds had gathered in the sky, and what he’d dimly registered as sea spray hitting his back turned out to be rain.

There was a small hotel farther up the beach.

“Let’s go,” Hannah urged him.

“Er, I need a minute.”

She looked at the bulge in his jeans and licked her lips, which didn’t help at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, I really meant to post the whole chapter, but it got long. Shorter chapters are much easier to edit, especially one that deals with a lot of tension and emotions I want to get right. The good news is part 2 will be posted in a day or two.


	9. PWM - Portland (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardy and Hannah go to a hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told ya you wouldn't have to wait too long for part 2 ;)

The hotel was a family-run type of place with too many floral patterns and a cat lounging on the windowsill.

Hardy let Hannah lead the way and ask for a room at the front desk.

“Anything you have available right away,” she said.

“No luggage?” the receptionist asked pointedly.

“No,” Hannah replied without bothering to make up an excuse.

The way he held his camera bag in front of his crotch didn’t make their intentions any subtler.

Smiling, she handed her credit card to the receptionist.

And Hardy suddenly wondered if Tess had done the same with her lover. Bold. Shameless. He felt a familiar pinch in his chest.

Hannah took his hand and chased the feeling away.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, she kissed him. On the mirrored wall, he watched his hands slide down to her buttocks and the fabric of her skirt bunch between his fingers.

“Do you do this often?” he asked.

“Don’t ruin it.”

* * *

As they got closer to their room, the throbbing between Hannah’s legs intensified. Her hands shook with urgency making it difficult to slip the key card in the slot.

She didn’t even look at the decor or turn on the lights. Alec hunched down to enter the attic room, and she laughed, more nerves than mirth.

Finally.

They looked at each other, holding their breaths, in the dimness. Then all at once, they were on each other, toeing off their shoes as they kissed and stumbled until the back of her legs hit the dresser. A lamp wobbled on top.

They fumbled with each other’s buttons, zippers and belts. She pushed up his sweater making his hair stand up on end with static electricity. He had only one arm out of his t-shirt when she slipped her hand inside his underwear. He groaned and gripped her thighs. A few strokes, and he hardened and pulsed in her hand. Her mouth watered. Her desire grew into something visceral and demanding.

He scrabbled with her bra strap. She huffed with impatience, hiked up her skirt and lowered her leggings, ready to let him have her like this, partially clothed, atop the dresser.

She sensed his hesitation. “Tell me what you want.”

“We have all day… Let me see you.”

“Sit down, then.”

She pushed him back playfully. His jeans fell to his ankles, and he sat on the edge of the bed.

Hannah made a show of rolling her leggings down her legs and kicking them to the other side of the room. She slowly unzipped her skirt and let it slide down her body to pool at her feet. Running a thumb under the waistband of her knickers, she snapped it against her hip. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

He raised his camera, silently asking for permission.

“Perv,” she joked.

“Only for me. Promise.”

She wondered how he saw her, his photographs revealed so much about his subjects. She was shedding more than clothes for him.

With a confidence she didn’t really feel, she raised her t-shirt in a teasing seesaw motion, over her toned stomach, then her chest.

“Are those sea shells?” he asked.

The stitching in the purple lace of her strapless bra made it look like something worn by the Little Mermaid.

“Well duh, I’m traveling on the sea,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Alec laughed. She adored his laughter, the way the sound seemed to surprise him, joy freed from the depth of his chest.

He put his camera aside and pulled her by the hand until she sat across his lap. He hugged her with such unrestrained affection her eyes welled up. She buried her nose in his neck, taking in the scent of his woodsy cologne and of the salt on his skin. His hands spanned the width of her lower back. Large and warm. How could such a skinny man feel so strong? 

A shared kind of solace imbued their embrace. 

Under her hands, she felt every bump of his spine, the swell of his shoulder blade, the curve of his neck, the soft hair on the nape. She spread butterfly kisses across his freckled shoulder. Following the dip of his clavicle, her fingertips encountered a ridge of scar tissue, still pink and new. Alec tensed under her.

“What happened?” she whispered.

He hesitated for a moment. “Pacemaker. I had arrhythmia.”

She’d expected a bullet wound not an illness. She splayed her hand over his heart. His poor heart, broken by this world.

“Will you be alright to…”

“If I can climb 295 steps, I think I can withstand sex.”

“I’m _very_ athletic.”

He chuckled and shook his head with something like disbelief.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing… You make me laugh.”

He caressed her jaw like it was made of crystal, precious but sharp enough to cut. Her rib cage felt too small, swelling heart constricting her lungs. She turned away, suddenly overwhelmed.

She knelt on the floor between his legs, and from his sharp intake of breath, he knew what was coming. She discarded her bra and took him in her mouth.

“Bloody hell.”

Now she could look him in the eyes again.

His fingers combed through her hair far too gently. His jaw was slack and his eyes glazed over, and he finally stopped looking like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Despite herself, it stopped being about keeping the upper hand. She licked and kissed and stroked his cock with more dedication and adoration than she had planned. 

Swallowing him deeper, she touched herself and made sure he knew it.

“Come here.”

He scooted up the bed, and she followed on all fours.

They’d both kept condoms at hand. His came from a brand new box tucked in his camera bag.

“Bit presumptuous.” she teased.

“Was I wrong?”

“Does that mean you thought about me last night?” she asked in a husky voice as she sensuously unrolled the condom down his length.

There was no mistaking her meaning, and she liked to think a blush crept under his scruffy cheeks.

“I did.”

Hannah straddled him but he pulled her forward by the hips, and his hands wandered between her legs. She knew the moment he felt how wet she was; he gasped softly, pushing two fingers in her.

“All of this for me?” he asked, repeating her words from earlier.

When she sank down on him, it's the bliss on his face that gave her the most pleasure. 

She bucked her hips quickly, roughly. He tasted the beads of sweat between her breasts, licking his way to her mouth, and kissed her sloppily. He grunted against her lips. 

He lay back down, and she followed, resting her forehead on his chest. Her movements became frantic, her eyes closed. 

Alec rolled over her. He stilled until she opened her eyes again. His fringe tickled her forehead, she smiled and brushed it aside and peppered kisses over his face. Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Now, please.”

Finally he moved, filling her so deliciously. With each long, luxuriating thrust, her head rolled back. She arched and ached to meet him. Always closer, deeper.

Their bodies entwined in the sheets. Clasped hands and dovetailed hips. Bite marks on glistening skin. Clumsiness and laughter too.

Rain beat down, loud and gray, on the window. The bed creaked like the hull of a boat. Their pleasure surged and crested. And the storm swallowed their confessions. 

* * *

Afterward, when she sat on the toilet, Hannah’s legs and hands still trembled. The soft flannel she ran over her stomach and thighs felt abrasive. Her breaths came ragged, and she focused on steadying them. 

She’d meant to get him out of her system, but he’d sank deeper under her skin.

She braced herself on the edge of the vanity and looked into her own eyes. _Pull yourself together_.

* * *

In bed, Hardy was on his phone.

“Now who’s the one addicted to their mobile?” she teased.

She snuggled up to him and looked at the screen: the browser was open to her Instagram profile, the post with her ship’s itinerary from last week.

“Aaww you missed me when I was in the loo.”

“I was going to look something up and it was already open on that page. Doesn’t matter.” He put the phone away on the bedside table.

Hannah smirked knowingly. Of course he was looking at her itinerary to know where to meet her next. “What did you want to look up, then?”

“My daughter’s flight status. She’s joining me in New York tomorrow.”

Hannah’s stomach sank. Her eyes flitted to the alarm clock, calculating how many hours they had left together. Two hours, twenty-three minutes.

He said something about staying in Portland for the night.

“Hm? Er, well, the room’s already paid for, so,” she answered.

“You could stay too. With me. Here. Tonight.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a ferry to St. John in the morning.”

“You’ve thought of everything.” In one swift movement, she sat up and straddled his thighs. “I think that could be arranged. Good thing you brought a whole box of condoms.”

They kissed. Already, warmth pooled between her legs. Alec rubbed his thumbs over the arches of her hips.

“I’ll be back in London next Tuesday,” he said.

“’K,” she muttered between kisses.

“You?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, distracted, and kissed that tender spot between neck and shoulder where she’d left a mark.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I might stay in Montreal longer, I’ve never been to Canada. Or I might get a new job. Or there might be an irresistible flight deal. You know how it is.”

She tried to kiss him again, but he stopped her.

“If you don’t want to see me, just say so.”

Hannah swallowed thickly. She couldn’t say so.

“If it’s meant to be, we’ll meet again.”

She caressed his chest and smiled sweetly, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“We’ll meet again if we make plans,” he retorted.

Hannah sighed and climbed off him. “Don’t be weird about this, Hardy. I’ve got your number, don’t I? I’ll give you a ring, if I can.”

He inspected her with narrowed eyes. Avoiding his gaze, she rubbed her thumb in her palm until the silence had passed.

“Hannah…”

Her heart constricted. She preferred Baxter and the distance it put between them.

“I don’t want to be disappointed if one of us has to cancel,” she insisted.

“Alright.”

She returned to his arms and buried her face against his chest. She hated herself for lying. It had not been a problem before. Men had an innate sense of this, they never asked to see her again.

“Anyway, I can always know where you are.” With a swipe of his thumb, he opened his phone back to her profile. “Sorry, that came out creepier than I intended.”

They laughed, and it dispelled the tension, but only briefly.

“That from yesterday?” he asked.

He was looking at a photo of her with her arms around a cute cabin boy.

“Yeah.”

“After we kissed?” He’d gone awfully still under her.

“Yeah. Something wrong with that?”

“You tell me.”

His beautiful face turned into a disdainful grimace. 

“You don’t own me because we kissed.”

She started putting her clothes back on with jerky movements.

“It’s not about owning, it’s… bloody decency.”

She scoffed. “Don’t tell me what’s decent. And d’you know what? I do fuck strange men in hotel rooms often.”

Her heart pounded in her ears as she gathered her things. She stormed out of the room before hot tears spilled from her eyes.

This was exactly why she shouldn’t see a man in more than one country. Now her good memories were tainted.

* * *

Hardy realized too late, much too late, that his reaction had nothing to do with Hannah, and everything to do with Tess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and that it doesn't seem like just an annoying miscommunication problem that could be solved if they just talked *bites nails*


	10. LGW - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two encounters prompt Hannah to reflect on her behavior.

The first holiday decorations adorned the city. White light ornaments brightened the long nights, in lieu of the snow that had yet to fall. 

Hannah buried her nose in her scarf against the chilly rain— all the more clashing after two weeks in Panama. Since October, she had kept herself as busy and as far away from London as possible. 

In Covent Garden, a Christmas tree sparkled, tall and merry. The front windows of Standfords displayed gift ideas under stars fashioned from old maps.

She spotted Bambi coming across the street. Looking at her running with those stick-thin legs in high-heel boots, she thought the young woman’s nickname suited her. 

Hannah didn’t make a habit of helping out the competition, but Bambi was persistent. And endearing… after a while. Since the first email exchange during the cruise, they’d stayed in contact mostly by texts, meeting only twice in person. 

“Hiya! Look at that tan! Babes, you look fit. We have to take some pics with the Christmas tree later.”

“Sure. I thought we could start with the magazine section, I’ll show you how to find publications you can query.”

“Brilliant. And let me know if there’s anything you like in there, I really want to get you a gift, you know, to thank you for your help.”

“There’s no need.”

“Anything. In there.”

Hannah brushed the rain off her red woolen coat and opened the door. The shop was busy with customers daydreaming about their next trip. Jamaican renditions of Christmas classics played in the background.

Hannah smiled at Suraj, a stout man with a penchant for African prints, who managed the shop. She knew him well from her frequent visits and special orders.

Hannah and Bambi browsed the magazine racks, exchanging marketing tips.

“I think there’s a book signing thing going on,” Bambi said, pointing at a poster propped on an easel.

A sudden coldness hit Hannah’s core. He was here. Signing books.

“Alec Hardy, isn’t he the bloke you hooked up with in America?”

She hadn’t told Bambi the whole story, only the highlights. Which had left her confused as to why Hannah refused to see Alec again.

“Bambi, what did you do?”

“Think of it as a gift.”

“We have to leave.”

“No, babes, you’ve gotta go talk to him.” She pulled on Hannah’s hand, but she resisted. “Come on, don’t be shy. You said you really hit it off.”

“No, listen, it’s a very, very bad idea.”

“If you don’t move, I’ll call him over.”

Hannah’s eyes widened with fear. She stepped away from Bambi and straight into Alec’s line of sight. He lifted his head from the book he was signing. Their eyes met. The next beat of her heart reverberated through her whole body.

He looked away.

“I thought you said he was hot,” Bambi commented.

A recent sunburn peeled on his nose and a yellow bruise graced his cheek, his hair needed a cut and his shirt an iron, yet to Hannah, he was beautiful.

She didn’t have a choice but to go up to him now, did she?

She queued behind two other people, in front of the folding table where he sat. His eyes kept darting to her with a guarded sort of hope that twisted the knot in her stomach tighter.

She knew she’d overreacted in Portland, but she would have ended their fling regardless. They wanted different things, and she refused to be tied down. Her presence here felt like she was toying with him.

When her turn came, she blurted out, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Right. You wouldn’t have come.”

She laughed uneasily and picked a book from the pile. It was a print of his retrospective exhibition in New York.

“Well, I’ve already seen this,” she joked.

She handed him the book for an autograph. His fingers brushed hers. A lump rose in her throat as she remembered the caress of those fingers on her cheek.

“I suppose you’ve been busy,” he said roughly.

“Yeah, lots. Busy, busy, busy. Big projects. I’m working on a book myself. ”

He signed the book hastily. “You’ll take one for your friend too. And your dad.” He slapped two other books on top of her signed one, knowing she had to buy them. He pushed them across the table and looked at the person behind her. She’d been dismissed.

She hung her head and walked away.

Suraj waved her over to the cash register. He made small talk to which she didn’t reply. “Are you alright, love?”

“I’m fine. I think I need to eat something.”

She looked back at Alec over her shoulder and noticed the cast on his left leg. Alec looked back at her too, and they both quickly turned their heads.

“D’you know what happened to his leg?” she asked Suraj.

“He jumped off a moving jeep in Sudan last week, something like that.” He handed her the credit card terminal. “I know Alec pretty well, I should introduce you two, I think you’d—”

“No!”

Bambi came up to her with a beaming smile. “Soooo?”

“This is what I get for trying to help you?” she snapped.

Hannah left the store right away.

The first thing she did upon arriving home was check out what he’d written in the book. He’d signed his name and nothing else. Holding her breath, she flipped the pages hoping for more. But there was no message, no allusion to their time together, not even a quote to overanalyze. She looked through the book for the photo of her, kicking plankton, in Pulau Kesuma— it had been removed.

She sagged against the door with a ragged sigh. The book slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor.

It’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

* * *

Hannah had come to Portobello road for last-minute Christmas shopping. It had proved unsuccessful thus far. She wandered the streets of Notting Hill, blowing warm breath on her frozen fingers. The pretty pastel-colored houses had become so popular with instagrammers that residents put “stay off my doorstep” signs in their windows. She searched for a coffeehouse or a pub to warm herself, but nothing was good enough. It’s only when she saw it that she realized what she’d been looking for: Ben’s bar.

They’d seldom spoken since last summer. He had a new girlfriend, someone from their uni days he’d reconnected with at an alumni event. At another point in her life, Hannah might have tried to come between them, but not anymore. His girlfriend was a nice person, and she seemed to want the same things as Ben in life. They looked happy on Facebook.

The bar was a lounge type of place thus quiet on this Tuesday afternoon.

Ben nearly dropped a bottle of wine when he saw her come in. 

“Happy Christmas, Benjamin,” she said.

She sat at the counter behind which he worked. He made coffee and responded to her small talk while keeping a wary eye on her. She toyed with a sugar packet, trying to flatten and even out the sugar crystals inside the paper. When it ripped, Ben snatched it out of her hands.

“Why are you here?”

She shrugged and picked a second sugar packet. “Ben, do you… do you ever think about Erin?”

He stopped cleaning martini glasses, let one drop to the bottom of the sudsy water in the sink.

“Yeah, of course. Not as much as I used to when it first happened, but yeah.”

“Did you ever figure out why she did it?”

Ben wiped his hands on a tea towel and joined her on the other side of the bar. “It’s been ten years, Han, and you’ve never wanted to talk about it before.”

But she had talked about it to Alec.

She made up an excuse, and Ben explained what he’d pieced together after Erin’s death. Unlike Hannah, he’d attended the funerals, and there he’d overheard some family drama. It had shed a new light on Erin’s home life.

“You know how she always wanted to stay over at your place or mine. And she’d talk about how well we got along with our families… She had an uncle, just out of prison, who’d come live with them. Some fucked up things happened. Went on for years.”

“No wonder she always talked of traveling and going away,” Hannah said.

“Right after, whilst you were off backpacking, her mum contacted me. She would come by the place where I worked back then, just a few times. She’d ask me about Erin, what kind of music she liked or what were her dreams, that sort of thing. She thanked me. She said Erin was happy with us.”

“But it wasn’t enough. Did Erin ever talk to you about it?”

“Sometimes, but rarely. Usually when she was drunk… Han, we were 18? 19 years old? She needed so much more help than we could give her. Professional help.”

“She never talked to me about it.”

“Well…” he shrugged as if that weren’t surprising.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can be hard to talk to, Han.”

“That’s not true! I’m very easy to talk to, people talk to me all the time!”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right.”

“No, I’m not right, tell me what you mean.”

As he gathered his thoughts, he reached over the counter and grabbed them bottles of beer.

“You’re funny and you’re good at listening, all of that’s true… but there’s only so deep a conversation can go with you. At some point, it’s like… hitting a wall or a closed door. You make a joke or say something dirty or get really angry, and I know I’ve reached your door— where you won’t let me in. So I back off.”

Her mind rebelled against his words. Her throat constricted. She ground her teeth so hard her temples smarted from it.

Ben continued, “And I think for a long time I thought I was the only one who would ever be able to go beyond it, that I was the only one who knew you and could help you.”

Hannah chuckled. “You should become a shrink, you’d get rich.”

Ben frowned.

“Oh, I did it again, didn’t I?”

“Yep.”

Hannah moved from the high barstool to a nearby white leather sofa. She stared out the window without seeing the street and cars. Christmas lights became blurred, blinking dots across her vision. This was a lot to take in. Ben’s insight on her character, but also that Erin’s death didn’t give rise to it, it was already there and only worsened over time.

“I’ve been a crappy friend to Erin, and to you,” Hannah said in a quiet voice. “And to so many others.”

“Not all the time. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“No, I’ve hurt you... and I’ve hurt him.”

“Who?”

She almost said “never mind”, but she felt it click into gear, like a rising drawbridge, this instinct to protect herself, and to protect him from herself.

With great difficulty, she said, “I think I fell for someone, but it’s too late now.”


	11. ARN - Northern Europe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will they find warmth in the cold of winter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol, brief reference to hate crimes (based on an episode of the documentary series Outside Man “Russia: Far Right and Proud”)
> 
> I used a different font for text messages, but I'm not sure it shows up on mobile, let me know if it's confusing.

_Stockholm, Sweden_

Hannah stepped out of the metro at Kungsträdgården station, one of fourteen T-Bana stations decorated by an artist, and the most stunning according to her research. It had the same low, cavern-like ceiling used as a canvas. Here it was painted dark green with a patchwork of abstract shapes or black and white stripes. On the floor, dark green, muddy red, and white criss-crossed in geometric pattern. On both sides of the passageway, relics from torn-down buildings— broken roman columns, stone balustrades, statue parts— sit like a cemetery of architecture. The garish light in some spots and the dizzying pattern reminded her of the movie _Beetlejuice_. Hannah smiled. Seeing such unique, incongruous places, that’s what she traveled for.

She rounded a corner, emerging out of the platforms and at the bottom of the escalators. There, several young men and women took pictures of themselves, sometimes with the help of a professional photographer, with the station artwork as a background. They even queued in front of the prettiest, best-lit spot. Some of them recognized Hannah, she waved back politely.

Hannah blew out a puff of air. She should have known this would happen and come earlier in the day. The multiplication of instagrammers complicated her quest for the new and unique. When she’d began blogging, that social media platform didn’t even exist.

She searched her surroundings for a special detail and a fresh take on this popular spot. On her right, a middle-aged couple observed the photo-takers, and Hannah approached them. A lot of Swedes spoke English. They averted their eyes at first— she’d noticed a distance between people here, different from South America for example, not unlike Brits— but Hannah had a charming way of engaging with strangers to quickly put them at ease. She asked what the artful public transit system meant to them. Soon, two other people joined the conversation, expressing diverse opinions from better use of public funds to the effect of beauty on daily stress. On Sundays, trains were fewer and farther in-between, allowing them more time to chat.

After they’d boarded a wagon, leaving Hannah on the platform, a young woman came up to her. Her name was Molly, she was a red-haired art student who gave guided tours of the metro stations. She invited Hannah to tag along. Molly turned out to be an invaluable resource for spotting all the details Hannah would otherwise have missed. They got along so well, at the end of the tour, they decided to find a café for _fika_ — a traditional coffee and pastry break.

Outside the Slussen station, the sun was already setting, painting the sky in pastel shades, soft as cashmere. Snowflakes drifted lazily over families enjoying a Sunday stroll. A humid coldness drifted in from the Baltic sea and seeped between the stitches of their clothes. 

Molly suggested a few coffee shops in the area. Hannah perked up at the mention of one at the top of the _Fotografiska Muséet_ — the photography museum. For the view, she said. But she couldn’t fool herself. She craved a closeness to Alec, however indirect. And who knows, he might even be there, in the flesh or through his work.

They hurried towards the red-brick former warehouse that housed the museum.

As they waited in line to order, Hannah tagged her location on social media. Just in case. It was unfair Alec could know her whereabouts, when she couldn’t know his. Every once in a while, she checked his Instagram account, it was still inactive. Maybe after that cold encounter at the bookshop, it was ludicrous to hope for a sign he still cared about her.

The café was an industrial yet cozy space under a slanted ceiling and exposed wood beams. They sat at a table near a large window that offered a view of the old town. Below, a ship from the Viking line ferries to Finland sailed through slushy waters. Broken pieces of ice bobbed like lost little rafts on the waves created by its passage .

Hannah talked about Alec, more than she’d intended. She turned the conversation back to Molly as soon as she caught herself. Molly had moved to Sweden from Armenia twelve years ago, so she had an amusing take on Scandinavian culture and the dating scene.

When they parted, Hannah did something she wouldn’t have done before: she gave the other woman her personal contact information. “If you’re ever in the UK,” she added.

Hannah stayed in the coffee shop afterward. She set to work on her tablet, jotting down notes about today’s encounters and brainstorming ideas before moving on to writing the article proper. A slice of princess cake, with its pistachio-green marzipan fondant, waited for her as a reward for finishing the work. In a typical Hannah fashion, she ate half of it as she wrote.

The real reward was the satisfaction of reconnecting with writing in-depth texts about people she met during her travels. Earlier this week, in Jokkmokk, she’d met three Sámi women: grand-mother, mother and daughter. They’d talked for over an hour by the fireplace in a tiny traditional crafts shop. She’d learned more about the aboriginal people of Lapland in that conversation than in the whole museum dedicated to their culture.

It was a book deal offer that had pushed her to return to her roots, so to speak. In November, a publishing house famous for churning out books by influencers had approached her. After a serious spell of writer’s block, deciding to start with her misadventure in Pulau Kesuma had opened the gates of inspiration.

She did it for herself, first and foremost, but she couldn’t help hope Alec still read her blog. She hoped he was proud of her.

* * *

_St. Petersburg, Russia_

The cold, clear taste of vodka burned down Hardy’s throat.

“ _Drugoy_ ,” he said to the barmaid, and she refilled his glass.

Was there anything more dreary than Russia in February? Maybe this hotel bar, so beige and bland it could be anywhere in the world.

A draft of cold air swept over his back, signaling an open door. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Hardy’s eyes darted to the mirror behind the liquor bottles, and he checked out the newcomers.

The barmaid asked if he was waiting for someone. “No,” he lied— best not trust the staff of a hotel where several journalists had registered.

He was one of a dozen foreign journalists and photographers here to report on a murder trial. The accused was the well-known leader of a nationalist group. The man was on trial for accidentally killing a policeman, but not for his attacks on migrant women (the group was known to post videos online of knife fights with attackers’ faces blurred). They expected his followers to show up. Some said the trial meant to stop his political ambitions rather than exert justice— United Russia still attempted to maintain a facade of decency and didn’t wish to be associated with such an extreme character.

Five days, and Hardy had nothing, only snapshots of people covering their faces in front of a courthouse. For five days, he had also been waiting on someone. He was acquainted with a former Russian journalist now living in the UK who said he could put him in touch with a local. That local could take Hardy to meet the families of both accused and victims. He hoped to photograph their families, houses and neighborhoods, a study in social environment shaping preys and predators. Every night, he waited at the hotel bar for someone to slip him a piece of paper with a rendezvous point, to no avail. He was starting to think it would never happen. Their reluctance, though understandable, disappointed him.

At a table behind Hardy, two young photographers with the same black and white checkered scarves, their equipment laid out in front of them, asked each other “have you done Syria?”, “have you done Iraq?”. As if war zones were nothing more than notches on a bedpost.

Hardy drowned his vodka and dropped twenty rubles on the counter. “ _Spaseeba_.”

He dragged his feet along the threadbare carpet of the hallway. His head swam a bit.

In his room, he switched on the desk lamp, its coiled neck creaked when he bent it away from his eyes.

Wondering how long he could afford to stay here, he checked his bank account. To his surprise, he’d received a substantial royalty payment yesterday. Not a fortune but larger than usual. He rubbed his eyes and double checked the amount. Must be a mistake. He’d have to call Tess. He calculated the time difference— not too late, and he could talk to Daisy too.

“There’s no mistake, Alec,” Tess said, “we sold a lot of your books. Must be the holidays. And Hannah Baxter.”

He straightened up his back, alert. “Hannah? You know about Hannah?”

“Er, well, I know of her. According to our website data a lot of the traffic came through her Instagram account and blog. She recommended your books and posted photos of them.”

“She did? Uh. That reminds me, have you ever set up an account for me?”

“Yeah, I think I might have. I can send you the password, if you want… Do you know her personally?”

“I do.” He didn’t offer more information, and gained a petty satisfaction from doing so.

“I suppose she’s pretty,” Tess said.

“Smart too. And a great writer.”

“She’s a bit young for you, isn’t she?”

“Not by much.”

“Oh, Alec, a social media star, really? Are you having a midlife crisis? How can you stand someone so superficial?”

“Don’t say that about her,” he snapped.

Tess was silent for a moment, then, with suspicion in her voice, “Did you know her before…?”

“Jealousy, Tess? Oh, that’s rich coming from you. _I_ never cheated.”

“Right. Okay. Do you need anything else ‘cause I—”

“Why did you do it, Tess?”

“It’s been two years, Alec. When you found out, you fucked off halfway around the globe. And now you want to talk about it? On the bloody phone, whilst you’re in Russia?”

“Aye.”

Tess sighed loudly. “I don’t think— okay. You shut me off, Alec. You were always gone, you’d come back in a state and wouldn’t talk about it.” Her voice was devoid of emotion beside frustration, and he realized she’d said those things many times before, but not to him. To her therapist, to her friends. To Dave. “I never knew if you’d come back alive. And even when you were here, your mind was elsewhere.”

“I was working.”

“I know, but life went on when you weren’t home. I changed.”

“Your feelings changed.”

“Yours too. Don’t pin this only on me.”

“Why not just ask for a divorce then?”

“You’re a good man, Alec. You needed us, me and Daiz… Have you got anyone now?”

“Yes.” He felt a hot shame at lying about having friends. He had people in his life but they depended on him more than he could depend on them.

Daisy arrived home from school, and Tess immediately put her on the phone. Still reeling from the conversation with Tess, he automatically asked, “how was school?”. His daughter had only a few minutes to spare for him before volleyball practice. She made a _perestroika_ joke, and that put him in a better mood.

After ending the call, Hardy let out a long sigh as he sat on the edge of the bed. His back curved and his hands hung between his legs. He had half a mind to take a bottle from the mini-bar, but couldn’t muster the energy to stand up.

He had only ever wanted to protect Tess and Daisy. By wanting to shield them from the horrors he witnessed, by wanting to keep his work life and home life separated, he’d cut them off from a big part of himself.

He stared at the Kandinsky art print on the wall. The abstractness of it soothed him. He lost himself in the blots of watercolor fading between ink lines until they danced before his eyes.

His phone pinged with a new email and broke his trance. Tess had sent him the log-in information for his Instagram account.

He told himself he would only check out other photojournalists’ profiles, professional courtesy and curiosity. Soon enough he was on Hannah’s profile. Only to see the posts about his books, he reasoned. Her latest photos featured Aurora Borealis, ice bars and herself, in full winter gear, with only her eyes uncovered, frosted eyelashes between knitted beanie and scarf. He recognized the curling gables of Stortorget: Sweden. Only two time zones away.

_Doesn’t matter._

He scrolled through many pictures of New Year’s Eve and holiday parties. Hannah in short, glittery dresses, her arms around friends, cocktail in hand.

The pictures of his books look staged: on a white table with a vintage compass, coffee cup and succulent artfully arranged around them. As someone who learned his trade with street photography, staging felt dishonest. Still, he couldn’t deny enjoying the one of her in bed, with his book open on her bare legs. They looked slimmer in the picture than he remembered them (their strength around his hips, the fleshy give under his fingers).

They’d struck a deal in Portland, but why keep her end of the bargain after what happened? Was she bragging? Extending an olive branch? Trying to get his attention? Well, it wasn’t enough. He mentally listed every time he’d taken the first step: he’d spoken to her in Singapore, called her in England (granted to insult her), followed her cruise ship.

He kept scrolling, telling himself this time he would only go as far as the Portland posts. He scrutinized photos for signs that she had been miserable after their break-up. The whole endeavor was pointless. These pictures weren’t really her. She kept a part of herself hidden to her followers— as she should— but also to the people around her, as he’d found out.

He reclined on the hard bed. His thumb steadily moved down and up the screen. With each picture of her smile, his indignation gave way to compassion. 

One didn’t experiment everything he had without developing a certain kind of spirituality. He didn’t believe everything happens for a reason— he’d seen too much senseless violence and injustice for that— but he felt some encounters were meant to be, even if he didn’t realize it at the time. And now, with what Tess had revealed, he thought maybe he and Hannah weren’t so different after all. They had opened up to each other in different ways, then clamped down and reacted stupidly when threatened by vulnerability.

Despite the bright mobile screen, Hardy was getting drowsy. The phone slipped from his grasp. He caught it swiftly. He congratulated himself on his great reflexes until he realized that, in the process, he’d accidentally liked one of her pictures. One where she’s in a bikini. From two years ago.

 _Shit_.

* * *

Hannah hit “post” and leaned back in her chair. Outside the museum, the sky was completely dark and Stockholm twinkled in the night. She deserved a break now even if she still had some photos to edit. When she raised her eyes, she met the blue ones of a young man across the coffee shop. Tall, handsome. That would do. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

She may be pining, but she drew the line at celibacy. 

A notification flashed across her cell phone screen, and her eyes darted to it like some Pavlovian response. _alechardy liked your post_. Her skin tingled all over. She stared at the screen until it went black then she turned it on again. The post in question was an old one from her first trip to Majorca. How long had he spent browsing her photos?

She bit her lower lip and texted him, `Miss me?`

When she looked up from her phone, the cute Swede was coming in her direction with two drinks. She started gathering her things and putting on her coat.

“Hej!”

“Sorry, I don’t speak Swedish.”

He switched to English and playfully tried to coax her to stay longer.

Hannah exited the coffee shop, but stayed within the range of its wi-fi.

`6:23  
Miss me?`

No reply but he had seen the message.

`6:35  
When will you stop moping about this?`

``

``

`6:42  
I’m sorry`

`6:55  
Can’t we be friends?`

Finally the bubble of three little dots appeared on the screen. Either he was the world’s slowest typer or he meant to torture her. She groaned.

`19:07  
I only wanted to see the posts about my books`, he wrote. 

`Did you sell more?`

`Yes`

`Told ya`  
`You owe me a drink ;)`

`Come here then`, he replied.

Her breath caught in her throat. She looked around as if he might appear. 

`I’m in Sweden`

`I know`  
`I’ve seen the photos`

`Are you here too?`

`No, St. Petersburg`

`I don’t have a russian visa :(`

Two years ago, she’d missed an opportunity to travel to Moscow because of the complex and lengthy administrative process. It was impossible to meet him shortly. 

Hannah refused to let this reunion opportunity slip. She looked up a few things on a travel app.

`Meet you halfway?  
Helsinki`

* * *

Hardy stared at the word. Helsinki. A four-hour train ride away, he’d looked it up before she’d even suggested it. He could be seeing her in the morning, all bundled up against the cold with that smile of hers that could thaw anything. He tampered down the hope growing in his chest. He had work to do here. He could leave in the middle of an exhibition, but not leave people in the lurch.

A knock at the door interrupted his dilemma. Two men in black suits, “Federal Migration Services, show us your papers,” they said in broken English.

“You’re supposed to show me your badges and tell me your names,” Hardy replied, unfazed— he was only surprised they hadn’t come sooner. “What do you need my papers for? I’m registered at the hotel.”

The two men lost some confidence in the face of a foreigner who knew his rights. They muttered something about security. Hardy showed them his passport and international journalist accreditation. He refused to answer more questions for which they had no legal grounds.

The visit wasn’t abnormal, only irritating. Still, there was a chance his whereabouts and communications were monitored, and as such it would be safer for everyone involved if he got out of the country.

`How soon can you be in Finland?`

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all! I was amazed by some of your insightful comments on the latest chapters. They make me think even more about my own story and make me want to write the best chapters I can. You guys are the best :D


	12. HEL-Helsinki

It was Hannah’s turn to wait for Alec’s arrival.

The ferry from Stockholm docked early in the morning— too early. Only a line of fiery light split the night sky from the dark, icy waters of the Gulf of Finland.

Backpack on, Hannah made her way towards the central railway station where his train would come in.

Snow was piled up high on either sides of streets and in vacant lots. So much of it, and more was falling. Even in low light, the whiteness blinded her.

At the front of the station, four stone figures, tall and muscular, held spherical lamps that glowed warmly in the shy dawn. 

Hannah had plenty of time to kill before Alec arrived. She opened a novel, but two pages in, her mind drifted off. She thought of the opening sequence of _Love, Actually_ : people hugging each other at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, off-screen Hugh Grant says something about love being everywhere. The same could be said about train stations. 

She bought Alec a tea, and a coffee for herself. She refrained from drinking it to keep her minty-fresh breath even if she desperately needed caffeine right now.

She had barely slept. Her reclining seat in a common room onboard the ferry had offered little calm or silence. But even in the best conditions, her thoughts would have kept her awake. All night, her mind had supplied a steady stream of reunion scenarios ranging from passionate to catastrophic. She’d overanalyzed their text exchange. Why had he asked her to join him in St. Petersburg? And why had he agreed to meet her in Helsinki? For friendship? Sex? Revenge?

But they were meeting halfway— not only in miles, she hoped— and that had to mean something.

One thing was clear to her, though, they’d rushed into things last time, going to bed with different expectations. She didn’t regret the sex, only her reaction afterwards. They had to slow down. Talk things out. And then maybe they could— she didn’t dare say it, even in her head.

She saw him in the crowd, all functional winter gear, beat up backpack and camera bag, his cheeks and nose tip rosy from the cold above his scruff.

They walked towards each other through the crowd of commuters, smiles growing with every long, hasty stride.

_Slow down, slow down._

He carried two cups too, tea for himself, coffee for her, and they laughed more than the moment warranted. With their hands full of hot beverages, no physical contact was possible.

They sat on a bench, in front of a high arching window, and exchanged cups. He put his camera bag between them.

“I’m glad to see you,” Hannah ventured. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

“It’s nothing. I had to get out of Russia anyway. I was waiting for a contact, but you know how it is for journalists there. Safer here.” He checked his phone as he said this.

“Right, I see.”

“Why did you want to meet me?” he asked bluntly.

“You asked me first! You told me to come to St. Petersburg, and you liked that photo.”

“That was an accident,” he retorted.

Hannah chuckled. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were looking at photos of me.”

She was desperate to hear him say he’d missed her, but she only got a monosyllabic acquiescence. “Yeah.”

“I thought maybe you’d done it on purpose, so I’d know. I wouldn’t have contacted you otherwise.”

“Why not?”

“Because I thought you were mad at me,” she said.

“I was. You made it clear you didn’t want to see me again.”

“I never said that.”

“It was obvious.”

“I wasn’t sure, that’s not the same thing.”

“Then why didn’t you call?” he asked.

“Because— because… you removed my photo from your book!”

“What?”

Hannah closed her eyes and sighed. This conversation wasn’t going the way she wanted at all.

Alec’s stern expression softened. 

“Have you eaten anything yet?” he asked.

“Er, no. Why?”

“Let’s go.”

Alec guessed Hannah already had a list of hot and trendy restaurants in Helsinki. He was right, but she had something different in mind, and he was content to tag along.

He followed her on the green and yellow tram to Hakaniemi Market Hall, farther from the center but less touristy, in a working-class neighborhood Alec approved of.

Inside the pre-war warehouse, fishmongers displayed fresh herring and rainbow trouts in refrigerated counters.

“You sure about this?” he asked, scrunching up his nose at the smell.

“There’s like 70 shops, we’ll find something.”

They couldn’t cook anything, but she bought slices of smoked salmon.

Soon, she detected the scent of freshly baked bread. “This way!” She tugged Alec forward.

Navigating the aisles with their travel backpacks wasn’t easy, and a lot of locals had come early to get their hands on the freshest products. Ceramic tiles lined the floor and walls, neons glinted off stainless steel, industrial, almost cold but clean and honest.

Hannah salivated at the sight of pastries of all kinds. Most of the signs were in Finnish— lots of umlauts and too many vowels— so she chatted with every seller.

She bought Karelian savory pies, and korvapuusti, soft, buttery cardamom buns. She picked more pastries at random, because she liked their shapes or toppings.

Now that Alec had mentioned it, she was famished. The smorgasbord of fragrances and colors distracted them from all the things left unsaid. And as they shopped, they caught up on their adventures of the last months as if they were old friends. Talking about their relationship may be difficult, but they could always count on their love of travel and adventure to bond.

She didn’t have his full attention, though. Every time she talked to someone else, he checked his phone.

“What’s going on?” she asked, exasperated. 

“I’m waiting for news of a trial. The verdict might come out today. That’s what I was covering in St. Petersburg.”

He pronounced “St. Petersburg” the way Scots pronounce “Edinburgh”— Edinbraw, St. Petersbraw.

Hannah bought local chocolate and salty licorice (she wouldn’t like it but had to try). Lingonberry jam, smoked reindeer and a squeaky cheese sold in slices like a pie completed the menu.

Alec laughed when she spread all her purchases on a dark wood table in the cafeteria.

“We’ll have some for lunch too.”

Above them, a garland of white and blue Finnish flags fluttered in the draught coming from the ceiling windows. They kept their coats on. Hannah fluffed her hair, flattened by her beanie

Naturally, he snapped pictures of the food and of Hannah.

“Yours wasn’t the only picture that didn’t make it into the book,” he said between two bites of bun

“No?”

“We couldn’t put them all in. Too expensive. I removed most of the artistic ones, to keep those of people who need help.”

“So it wasn’t passive-aggressive?”

“… maybe on some level,” he admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Can’t believe you bought three copies.”

“You made me! You wanker,” she said, all in good humor. She was glad they could laugh about it now.

She bit into a Keralian pie, the mix of crunchy rye crust with thick rice pudding, the sweet jam and smoked reindeer on top aroused every one of her taste buds.

“Mmm! You’ve got to try this.” She fed him the other half.

They didn’t talk more about the incident at Stanfords, except for him asking about the book she’d mentioned writing.

“How’s that going?” he asked while layering cold cuts and cheese on bread. He gave her half of it.

“See for yourself.”

She handed him her phone, open to an email from her editor.

_RE: Chapters 2-3_

_This is a great start, Hannah. I think we’ll need to sit down together again to reassess our goal with this book. We’re really going for something more light-hearted. We want what you’re best at: tips for packing cute outfits, your favourite nightclubs, how to flirt in various countries, that sort of thing…_

The tone reminded her of Duncan, back at _Elite Travelers,_ saying “stick to what you’re good at”. It made her grind her teeth.

“Not what you wanted to hear?” he asked.

“It’s not what I wanted. I wanted it to be about… I don’t know, humanity, I suppose.” She bit into a pastry. “Oh, there’s rum it this!”

“Give it here.” Before biting into it, he asked, “what will you do, about the book?”

“I think I’ll write it anyway, the way they want. At least I’ll get a first book published, then a better deal might come along.”

Something similar had happened to him. 

“After my wife and I split, I looked for another publisher,” he began.

The mention of his ex caught her attention. He hadn’t really talked about her before, and a few months ago she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, but now she was interested.

She drank from his smoothie, attempting a casual air.

“Tess, she was my editor,” he explained. “She worked for a newspaper, that’s how we met. Then she opened her own small publishing house on the side. With Dave, another editor. For photography books. But we were splitting so, I looked elsewhere. Anyway I had these photos of Myanmar, of the persecuted Rohingya people, and one publisher agreed to make a book if there were photos of victims— corpses— on every other page.”

“Oh my god. That’s gruesome. What did you do?”

“I refused.”

“Of course, you did.” _Mr Integrity._ “And your latest book?”

“Tess published it. We have our differences, but she gets it.” He picked a piece of smoked herring from her plate. “She’s the one who told me you’d posted about it and raised the sales.”

Hannah felt a pinch to her heart.

She lowered her head, and pushed crumbs around her plate.

So they were still in touch, still close. And they had a child together.

Alec offered her a square of dark chocolate.

“But it wasn’t my first book,” he added. “Go ahead. Write what they want. And tell your own story with someone else who really wants it.”

“You wouldn’t think less of me?”

He frowned. “No. Won’t buy it, though.”

“You owe me three copies. You daughter might like it,” Hannah said to make him talk more about his familial situation.

He talked a little bit about Daisy, but his cell phone rang. “It’s work.”

“Hi… What!?… in Helsinki… I know, but the Migration Services visited me yesterday, so… Shit!” He slumped in the chair and raked a hand through his hair. He talked some more, but Hannah couldn’t make sense of the one-sided conversation other than it upset Alec.

“You missed the verdict?” Hannah asked.

That he’d missed the action he was supposed to photograph only explained part of his frustration. The man on trial, Alyosha Volkov, had been found not guilty. Whether or not he’d killed that policeman was debatable, but they had good reasons to think he’d murdered other people, namely a few young women from Central Asia. His conviction, even for another crime, would have brought some solace to their families.

She didn’t remember hearing about the trial on the news, yet the name rang a bell. According to Alec, Volkov was a businessman, a knife fighting instructor and the leader of a white supremacist group masquerading as tame patriots. Although he claimed the latter two had nothing to do with one another, members of his groups were known to train with him and many knife attacks on migrants had been reported (but rarely prosecuted).

They packed their leftovers and headed out of the market to explore the city. They wandered the snowy Senate Square, passing by the cathedral, its green domes standing out against the grey sky. 

Alec barely noticed their surroundings, lost in thoughts about his work no doubt, twice he made some calls.

When the cold got to them, they entered the National Museum to warm themselves up. They left their coats and bags in a locker. Alec wore a Henley under his usual utility shirt.

“Will you be alright?” she asked as they headed for the first exhibition on prehistory.

“Yeah. Why?”

“If you’d rather go back to Russia…”

His answer didn’t come as quickly as she’d hoped. “No, no. Too late now, anyway.”

“Well, cheer up, then, will you?”

He smiled a too-wide, fake grin. She scoffed and lightly pushed his face away, then he smiled for real.

They walked to a glass display of flint arrowheads.

His hand fluttered behind her, between shoulder and waist, unsure where to rest, and finally only brushed down her back and disappeared behind his.

She kept her eyes on the explanation card without reading it.

Her own resolution to take things slow frustrated her. Hadn’t she reacted so irrationally in Portland, they could be making out right now instead of faking an interest in Neanderthal weapons.

She leaned sideways until she felt the warmth of him. And they stared at the arrowheads far longer than necessary.

The next exhibition room centered on the Viking age. Hannah commented on how manly the men must have been back then; a ridiculous, immature attempt to get some kind of jealous reaction out of Alec. He didn’t bite. He even pointed at a muscular security guard she might like. Strange, given how he’d reacted to one innocent photo in Portland.

His phone rang again, and Hannah rolled her eyes. At least he hesitated before taking it.

He listened intently to the speaker, and his whole face suddenly brightened up.

“Outstanding!… There’s a train going back every two or three hours… OK… yeah… Four days! No. That’s too long. The mothers can change their minds. Or someone can make them change their minds.”

He looked up, searching for a clock, and met Hannah’s appalled look instead. He studied her for a moment.

“Listen, I’ve got someone here. She’s a writer. She can do it… Hannah Baxter… Dead serious. I only need Baxter.”

Hannah was making wild gestures, trying to get his attention and understand what the hell was going on. He held up his hand, telling her to hold off. He listened to whoever was on the other end, nodding along, as she tried to overhear something.

After hanging up, they sat on a bench, and he explained the situation to her. The museum was virtually empty of visitors. His voice echoed in the large exhibition room, so he kept it low.

He had been talking to an editor at the newspaper that assigned him to St. Petersburg. The local contact he was waiting for had finally come through. The mothers of two young women presumably killed by Alyosha Volkov had agreed to meet Alec. But the newspaper wanted to send a journalist too, to interview them. Because of visa procedures, the journalist couldn’t be in Russia before, at least, four days which is why he’d enlisted Hannah instead.

She pressed her steepled fingers to her lips and looked up at the ceiling. “I… you… you did what?” she stammered.

“We don’t have much time. It’s very courageous of them. Volkov’s gang could go after them for talking to foreign journalists.”

“We’ll be putting them in danger? And ourselves too, I presume.”

He moved closer to her, and she realized she’d been inching away from him.

“We’ll protect their identity. They want justice for their daughters. And for these knife attacks to stop. These men are assaulting anyone who looks different, with impunity.”

“And you want _me_ , a travel blogger, an instagrammer,to interview these mothers?”

“And some members of Volkov’s group.”

Hannah’s eyes widened and she scoffed. 

“If we can make contact,” Alec amended. “I want to get both sides of the story.”

Hannah stood up and paced the floor in front of him.

“I can’t do that. I’ve never written for a proper newspaper, not like that anyway, much less one like The British Inquirer.”

“It’s only formatting. I’ll help you out.”

“It’s not just writing, it’s meeting these women who’ve been through traumatizing stuff. Their grief… It’s too much for me. I can’t.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Baxter. You know you can do it.”

“Yes, but would it kill you to give me a little reassurance?”

Alec took her hand and made her sit back next to him.

“I’ve read your article on the women in Lapland.”

“You have?”

“On the train this morning. You have a way with people, I’ve seen it. You said you wanted to write about humanity.”

Hannah crossed her arms and rubbed her collarbone, chin tucked in.

“I can’t do it without you,” he added.

The final blow. Damn him and his big brown eyes. Such a scruffy, rude man had no right to pull a puppy look.

She stared at him, a hand across her mouth, still too scared to give in.

“You need me?” she said in a low voice.

“Hannah, I know you— that we don’t, er, want the same thing. I respect that. This is entirely professional. We’re colleagues. We’ve done it before. Alright?”

 _Right_. Coworkers. _Professional_.

“I still don’t have a visa,” she said.

“There’s a loophole. Sort of.”

He’d learned about it only this morning, on a customs board at the train station. They looked up the government’s website to verify the information. “Cruise or ferry passengers can stay in some cities for 72 hours without a visa if they have booked tours through officially licensed companies.” St. Petersburg was one of those cities. She could go. 

Alec insisted hers was the perfect cover: a travel blogger visiting Northern Europe. She didn’t need a work visa unless she had a sponsorship deal in that country.

“Which I have in Stockholm, by the way, I’ll have to get back.”

“You will. After the interviews. 72 hours.”

“But what if they question me at the border? Can I get in trouble, going under false pretenses?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you.”

“You will?”

It might seem suspicious to authorities that a journalist left the country for a day then came back. With Hannah, he could say he left to meet a friend. “And I’d liked St. Petersburg so much, I wanted to show it to you. Every traveler should visit that city.”

She was starting to understand why he needed her to come along.

Using the museum’s Wi-Fi, they looked for a ferry leaving tonight. At the last minute, only one basic cabin was left, one deluxe and a handful of suites. Neither of them wanted to pay the high price of the deluxe, much less of the suites.

“So if we say we’re going together then…” Hannah trailed off.

“Then?”

“We should probably book only one cabin for the both of us. The basic one’s got two twin beds anyway.”

“Right. Makes sense. Less expensive too,” he agreed.

“Yeah, it’s practical. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

He shrugged. “Unless you snore. We’ll be working, we’d be in each other’s cabin anyway.”

Alec clicked “book now”.

Hannah couldn’t get over the feeling of foreboding. Circumventing Russian laws, investigating a violent group, meeting bereaved women. No control whatsoever. She felt like a black hole was opening in the pit of her stomach to swallow her from the inside

Alec looked at her, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I want to do it,” she said.

“Well, I’m booking the cabin anyway. There’s an extra bed for you if you change your mind.”

They resumed visiting the museum, going from a bear claw amulet and a bridal rake to Tom of Finland’s homoerotic art. She didn’t pay much attention. Guilt about not helping and fear of disappointing Alec warred inside her chest with that deep-rooted resolution to focus only on beautiful, pleasant things in life.

Through it all, Alec talked about Alyosha Volkov and the increasing number of young men joining the ranks of his not-so-secretly racist group. Which led to talks of Russia’s socio-political climate at large.

Hannah yawned. He glared at her.

“Sorry.”

He kept talking. She made an effort to listen because he really did care— maybe too much— about the fate of migrant people in Russia. About making the world a little more just.

Hannah looked at the time on her phone.

“Are you paying attention to this?” he asked

“Yeah. Putin’s the worst, I get it.”

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

“I know you’re worried about your contact and the mothers, but how is being miserable about it helping anyone right now?”

“Sorry?” he said at a higher pitch.

“I’ve only got seven hours left in Helsinki, and I want to enjoy them. Now you can stay here and think about all the awful things in the world if you think that’s going to help, or you can come with me and enjoy yourself too.”

The offended look on his face made her worry she’d gone too far. 

She held out her hand to him. 

Finally, a corner of his mouth twitched with a smile. He took her hand. 

She immediately felt lighter. She bounced on her toes.

“Oh, wait, we have to take a photo.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, smiling at her phone she held up in front of them.

“Why?”

“For our cover. What if customs officers check my blog?”

“Why do I feel like you’re going to use that excuse a lot?”

“Because you really get me, Hardy.” She smiled up at him. “Now could you look a little less… like you.”

“Oi! The cheek.” But even as he complained, he slipped an arm around her waist to pose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More adventures in Helsinki in the next chapter, and maybe adventures on the sea towards Russia...


	13. FI HEL - Helsinki and the Baltic Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot and cold, then hot again.

Rivulets of sweat slithered down Hardy’s forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped it off on his forearm and moaned from the oppressive heat and humidity. Every breath drawn burned inside his nostrils.

In the sauna, naked men drank warm beer and flogged themselves with leafy branches, something about increased circulation. Hardy stuck with water.

This wasn’t a tourist trap, but a proper community sauna, shabby and shady, graffiti outside and fragrant spruce planks inside.

The men wrapped sausages in foil and threw them onto the hot rocks for a snack. Karl, the tramway conductor who’d taken them here, translated a joke for Hardy’s benefit. Even without the translation, he could have guessed they were exchanging bawdy jokes. Salt of the earth kind of blokes, factory workers and civil servants. Taking a page out of Hannah’s book, Hardy made an effort to join in the conversation. She was the one to first talk to Karl, asking what they should do with only one day in Helsinki.

Finally, Karl declared the sauna session done. Hardy sighed with relief as they opened the door. But the men didn’t head for the changing room; they went outside.

The arctic air crystallized every drop of sweat on his body. Even his nose hair froze like icicles.

Hannah came out too, with the women from her side of the sauna. Though the Finns were naked, both he and Hannah had kept their pants on. She crossed her arms over her naked chest. He tried not to stare. She ran to snuggle into his side and rubbed her cold nose tip against him. The skin of her arms goose pimpled. He remembered kissing that freckle on her shoulder.

A yelp made him look away. The locals were running across the snow and jumping in the icy waters of the bay.

“Are we doing this too?” he asked.

“We have to, we’re in Finland.”

She grabbed his hand and led him to the edge of the bay.

Someone had smashed the ice to open a hole. As they stepped inside, they uttered every swear word they knew, and then some. Hannah’s tight grip hurt his hand. The chill expelled the breath from his lungs. They squatted in the water, splashed themselves perfunctorily, still cursing like sailors.

But he understood now, the cleansing feeling of it. A connection with nature. As if his body had gone through the cycle of seasons in a matter of minutes. His mind ran clear like a stream in spring.

He and Hannah grinned at each other with blue lips and chattering teeth. Her long lashes were white with frost and her cheeks bright red. She was beautiful and a bit mad, and he was crazy about her. 

The Finns applauded their courage.

The trail back to the building was iced-over from the wet feet of their sauna-mates. Hardy warned Hannah, who was walking fast ahead of him. She slipped anyway, and he swiftly caught her around the waist.

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She stared at him for a moment. “I’ll do it. The interviews.”

He realized he’d forgotten all about work.

* * *

They arrived early at the port. After the sauna, they’d had enough adventures. They planned on eating the rest of this morning’s food in the terminal, before embarking for the fourteen-hour night journey to St. Petersburg.

At the check-in counter, the clerk, a small scarf tied primly around her neck, searched through the system for their booking. She waved another clerk over, and they talked in Finnish, pointing at the screen.

Alec sighed loudly.

“There has been an overbooking problem with the system,” the woman said.

Alec inhaled deeply, ready to complain, but Hannah put a hand on his arm and smiled sympathetically at the clerk.

“Stupid systems. I’m sure you’re smarter than a computer, Helmi. Could you find a way for us to be on that ferry tonight, please?”

The clerk typed something, eyes darting across the screen.

“I think I could upgrade you to a deluxe cabin. Free of charge, of course.”

“Brilliant. Thank you so much.”

* * *

“There’s only one bed,” Hannah stated from the doorstep of their cabin.

Her bag dropped to the floor with a loud thud. Neither of them stepped inside.

Hardy tugged on his earlobe. He hadn’t spent a whole night in bed with a woman since Tess.

“So there is,” he said. “You got your wish.”

“What’s that?”

“In Boston, you said you wished you could take me on board.”

“Oh, yeah, after we’d…” She didn’t finish the sentence. “What’s deluxe about this anyway?” she whined, taking in the faux wood paneling and navy carpet. The tiny bathroom was squished into a corner, with the sink and counter outside of it.

“After you.”

“How gallant, Mr. Hardy.”

She gave him a teasing, sultry look as she passed by him. Would he survive the night?

After the sauna, they were both eager for a proper shower. She went first. When he followed, the steam that enveloped him was fragrant with her peachy soap, with the scent of her. He ignored the twitching at his crotch, turned the water cold and hurried.

He’d meant it when he said it would be a professional affair. Giving these murdered girls and their families a voice was his priority. He needed this reportage done, and Hannah was the best for the job, no doubt about it. If anything other than work happened between them, he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t cast him off again like last time.

Hannah may be able to form short-term attachments and move on afterwards, but he couldn’t. He was loyal. To a fault, sometimes.

He changed into sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. Thankfully, Hannah wore long flannel pyjamas with little Swedish flags on. But there was another kind of fantasy in that too: Hannah’s face clean and glowing, her hair still wet and wavy, the twin cuppas steaming on the bedside table. As much as he abhorred routine, there was something to be said for homely comforts.

“Ready?” she asked, opening her laptop on her crossed legs.

There was only one arm chair, as they worked, they took turns sitting in it while the other person sat on the floor, avoiding the bed at all cost.

Unlike this morning at the museum, Hannah listened attentively, chin in her palm, eyes on him. So much so, he grew self-conscious.

“What?” he asked.

“You just know so much. It’s incredible. One event and you can envision all the effects it will have. I’d have to study full-time for years to know half as much as you.”

He shrugged. “But sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

“You don’t really think that.”

“Probably not.”

“So let me get this straight: this nationalist group of Volkov’s, they want Russia to return to its former glory, or whatever, with all the territories from the USSR.”

“Yeah.”

“But then they get pissed off when people from ex-USSR countries migrate to Russia?”

He nodded, and they rolled their eyes at the same time.

“And that policeman Volkov killed, what did he look like?”

Hardy didn’t know. He’d focused on the hidden story rather than the main event. He found a picture of the policeman. Without Hannah, he would have missed something important : the policeman had mongoloid facial traits and tawny skin, if the “accident” happened while he was off-duty, it could be that Volkov mistook him for a migrant.

He showed her the pictures he’d taken at the trial, and of Alyosha Volkov.

“I knew I’d heard that name before!” she said. “He works for Group Peregrine.”

“The hotel chain?”

“Yeah, the same one who built the Mahal Kita. I looked them up after everything that happened in Indonesia. I didn’t want to ever stay at one of their hotels again. I’m probably blacklisted anyway for exposing their not-so-eco practices.” As she talked, she searched online. The laptop screen illuminated her face and the crease of focus between her brows. “Ha! Here.”

She turned the laptop towards him. He put on his glasses to read. The web page listed Alyosha Volkov as the general manager of two hotels in St. Petersburg: Embassy Suites and the Rozanica Inn.

Hardy filed the information away for later, unsure if that was relevant yet.

They focused on the mothers, immigrants from Kyrgyzstan, Aima and Keres. They listed questions to ask. Jokes and ideas flowed between them. They argued, and forced each other to question their assumptions. His resolve melted. With heated debate came touches to grab the other’s attention, the arm, the chin, and with eureka moments hands met in high fives, shoulders bumped together, fingers lingered, gazes flickered to lips. In those moments, he didn’t know which of a professional or romantic partner he wanted the most. Not both. Not after Tess.

“We want to know if they saw their daughters’ bodies. How. Where. What state they were in.”

Hannah laughed.

“Oh, Christ, you’re serious?”

“There’s been no real investigation. We need the facts before we accuse Volkov’s gang in a newspaper. We have to stay objective.”

Hannah stood up and paced the floor in front of the porthole.

He stood up too, winced from the pain in his lower back caused by the hard floor.

Outside, glints of silver moonlight bounced off the waves. 

“Why don’t _you_ ask them?”

She poked him in the chest then held on to his t-shirt.

“Because I don’t worry about it like you do.”

He would be too forward, rush them to divulge gritty details. He belonged behind the camera. An observer. A gatherer of evidence.

By 9:30, both were getting drowsy. They were tired, not only from walking miles around Helsinki, but from the emotional strain of their reunion. The constant self-monitoring and analyzing of every word and gesture.

There was a long moment of teeth brushing and unnecessary fussing over wrinkled clothes, and then there was nothing to do but get in bed. Side by side, a no man’s land of cotton between them.

The ship’s engine droned. He tried to avoid thinking about the depth of the sea beneath them.

Beside him, Hannah was still, her breathing steady. And he watched over her.

He thought she was sleeping, but an hour later, she asked. “Alec, are you asleep?” Her voice was shy in a way he hadn’t heard before.

“No,” he whispered.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he answered too quickly. A pause, then, “I was thinking about the last time we were in bed together.”

“Which part?”

“Not the fun one.”

“You know nothing happened with that bloke in the photo, the cruise ship worker.”

“I know.”

The mattress dipped when she turned on her side. His breath caught in his throat.

They should have this conversation fully awake, but perhaps it could only happen in that hazy, vulnerable space before dreams. He had to tell her. Now or never. But the truth might repel her.

He took a deep breath and, on the exhale, said, “My wife had an affair.”

“Oh.”

“A long one. With her business partner. Still, I shouldn’t have been so jealous. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too,” Her voice slurred with sleep. “I freaked out. Even before the photo.”

“Freaked out? Because you had sex with someone you didn’t want to see again?”

“Stop saying that. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Why?”

He turned to face her too. In the dark cabin, he could only guess the expression on her face— he could barely keep his eyes open anyway— but he heard her shaky breath and felt a tug on the sheet she grasped in her fist.

“Tell me,” he whispered with something desperate in his voice.

“I did want to see you again. So much. Every time I go though an airport, I hope I'll bump into you. Ever since we first met. That’s what freaked me out.”

A weight lifted off his chest. He scooted closer to her.

“I don’t know why,” she continued, “I’ve this rule for myself, to never see again someone I’ve met whilst traveling. Especially not in London… I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

“Yeah. I’m a mess too.”

They sought each other’s hand. Their fingers entwined.

Hannah curled herself around their joined hands, knees rising against his legs, forehead a hair's breadth from his.

“I missed you,” he said, so faintly it might have been in his dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why the ride between St. Petersburg and Helsinki is four hours by train, but 14 hours by ferry, but that’s the way it is. I’m not making this up so they can spend the night together… but it’s convenient.
> 
> Only a few chapters left, time to wrap up all the plot lines and unresolved tension...  
> I know that discussion was overdue, but I hope I did a good job of showing they weren't in the right mental/emotional place before now.


	14. LED - Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardy and Hannah investigate in St. Petersburg, and sparks fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Hardy was in Russia to cover the trial of Alyosha Volkov, the leader of a nationalist group accused of killing a policeman. Hannah was in Sweden covering winter activities there. They met halfway in Helsinki. But Hardy missed the verdict of the trial because he was away. While visiting Helsinki, he was preoccupied. Then one of his contacts came through and set up interviews with two mothers whose daughters were allegedly killed by Volkov. Hardy roped Hannah into coming with him to do the interviews and write the article for the newspaper. At first, Hannah didn't want to, but they spent the day together (sauna), and she finally agreed. They shared a cabin on a ship to St. Petersburg, they worked on the interviews then shared a bed and opened up a little about their feelings for each other.
> 
> CW: grief, physical violence

In the car, Hardy wiped the lenses of his cameras and verified the settings. They were on their way to the poorest suburb of St. Petersburg, to meet Aima and Keres, the mothers of Alyosha Volkov’s presumed victims.

Hannah gasped when the car drove by the grand Winter Palace, all gold and teal and ornate white columns, fairytale-like with these flurries of snow twinkling around.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous.”

From her seat behind him, she passed her arms each side of his headrest to wound around his shoulders. The ease with which she touched him, this casual affection, made his heart swell.

“I hope we’ll have time to explore after we’ve done our work,” she said. “We should take some pictures together for my blog.”

Hardy agreed. She wasn’t joking like she had in Helsinki, they’d used the travel blogger excuse at the border, she’d showed the officers her Instagram account, they might keep an eye on it.

Entering St. Petersburg without a visa had gone smoothly— suspiciously so. But he didn’t tell her that.

Standing in Dvortsovaya Square, they put their arms around each other and smiled at the camera. It took a few shots for Hardy to look natural. On the last picture, they looked like positively-smitten tourists, not like two journalists out to unmask a dangerous gang leader.

Ekaterina— Kat, for short— took the pictures. She was a linguistic professor who doubled as a driver and translator for foreign journalists. She managed to look both like a librarian and a heavy-weight lifting champion. Perhaps it’s this duality in appearance that made her so versatile in her job. Hardy had met her on his second trip to Russia, and often heard about her from colleagues. She’d proven reliable in the past, which is not to say she didn’t work for the regime. But she spoke Kyrgyz, an essential skill to conduct the interviews today.

They drove out of the city center toward the outskirts of town. As beautiful palaces and gilded church spires gave way to austere soviet housing blocks, Hardy welcomed the tension in his muscles and the first tingles of adrenaline. A sense of utter focus washed over him.

Kat found a vacant parking space halfway between Keres and Aima’s residences.

In this neighborhood, tiny shops displayed goods from all over the world and signs in many languages. A microcosm of Eurasia.

Hardy took photos of the area. His zooming lens doubled as binoculars to watch out for unwanted observers.

They reached the tower where Aima lived. He opened the door for Hannah, but she didn’t walk in. For the first time, he noticed how pale she looked. He swung his hand to urge her in; he didn’t want to stay out here too long, it might attract attention.

“Hannah?”

She wrung her hands together, eyes shifting away. “I don’t know—”

“Shut it off, we’re working now.”

His outburst startled her. She frowned.

“Remember,” he said, “if we do this right, we could prevent more murders.”

“Brilliant, no pressure, then.” She laughed nervously.

“Take a deep breath, love.” He breathed deeply with her. “Alright? Now stop dawdling.”

He turned on his heels, and she followed.

They met Aima first. A small woman in a worn track suit, with prematurely-aged skin, crow’s feet at the corners of her small eyes, but her prominent round cheeks gave her a mischievous look. She came from a nomadic people who roamed the great steppes and mountains of Central Asia, and here she was now, with her family, confined to one bedroom in someone else’s flat. 

On a hot plate on the floor, honey boiled in hot water with spices. The scent of ginger, cinnamon and cloves filled the small space. Aima offered them each a cup of this _bal_ , perfect to warm them on this cold winter day. The flat wasn’t heated.

Hardy itched to start working right away, but he’d learned the importance of introductions and putting the subject at ease. And in this case, not just for Aima’s benefit, but Hannah’s too. They sat in a circle on upturned buckets. Kat translated their small talk.

Fifteen minutes in, Hannah finally asked the first question they’d prepared together. Her voice was unsteady, but Aima made a joke which put her at ease.

Hardy photographed Hannah, and when they were engaged in the conversation, he went around the room. Yellowed mattresses propped against the window. Makeshift curtains held by duct tape. Second-hand kitchen wares stored in boxes. Spots of dark green mold behind shreds of wallpaper. One faded painting of kittens, still wrapped in plastic with its protective cardboard corners. 

But he was distracted, twice he chimed in the conversation to remind Hannah of their goal, and a third time to reword her question.

As they neared the topic of Aima’s daughter’s death, Hannah squirmed in her seat, babbled, beat around the bush. 

Hardy’s blood pressure increased. She couldn’t avoid the subject. His contact had told him Volkov was involved in the deaths, but they didn’t know how, only asking the mothers would shed light on the matter.

After a moment, Hannah rose to take a closer look at a tapestry on the wall: brightly-colored felted wool, with an organic sort of damask pattern and meticulous silk embroidery.

“It’s beautiful. Did you make that yourself?” she asked.

_Hannah, what the hell are you doing?_

Aima explained it was a “ _tush-kiyi_ z” that used to hang in her parents’ yurt.

“How do you make it?”

Hardy tapped his foot. The longer they stayed here, the more likely someone would be alerted to their investigation, they didn’t have time for Kyrgyz DIY.

He cleared his throat loudly to get Hannah’s attention, but she wouldn’t look at him. He went closer, to photograph the _tush-kiyi_ z and remind her to get back on track.

Then something happened. Aima said she’d meant to teach her daughter how to make their traditional crafts with felt, but they ran out of time. Tears welled up in her eyes, and the whole story rushed out. Hannah listened in that open, compassionate way of hers, and asked only a few questions at exactly the right moment.

When Aima mentioned her daughter worked at the Embassy Suite hotel, Hannah and Hardy exchanged a look above her head.

 _Out-bloody-standing_.

“They found the body in a trash container,” Kat translated Aima’s words but the mother’s sobs made it hard to understand. “She had to go at the… the morgue. She’d been dead many days, four days, when she saw her. Her face was blue— bruised, almost not recognizable. With knife marks, here—” Aima hit her torso with her fist, twice in the chest, and three times in the stomach. 

She fetched a photo of her daughter and put it in Hannah’s hand, begging her for help. “ _Jardam. Jardam_.”

There wasn’t anything else to ask. Hannah stayed with Aima until she’d calmed down, then they left.

Next, they went to Keres’s home, in another concrete tower block. On the way there, Hannah didn’t speak a word.

This time, Hardy followed Hannah’s lead. He trusted her fully. And already could tell his pictures would be better. Keres’s daughter used to work at the Embassy Suite too.

Half an hour later, Keres’s second daughter came back from work. She recognized Hannah from Instagram and insisted they pose together. Hardy watched with delight how Hannah weaved questions into the improvised photoshoot, getting the teenage girl to reveal what she knew about her sister’s death. 

* * *

Alec wanted to snap more pictures of the area and maybe talk to other people.

“Alright, you go ahead,” Hannah said, “I’ll wait for you here. I’ve to write down some notes.”

“Okay, see you in a bit.” He took a few steps, then turned back to her. “Well done, Baxter.”

She smiled at him and waved. He all but sauntered away, and she watched his back until he disappeared around the corner.

Hannah removed her leather backpack and rummaged through it, elbow deep.

“Fuck, where is it?”

“Here.” Kat offered a pen and a piece of paper.

“No.” 

Hannah shove Kat’s hand away.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine, alright! I just need my fucking…”

She turned her bag upside down and emptied its content on the sidewalk. Her phone clattered to the ground, coins escaped from her wallet. She grabbed a crushed pack of cigarettes and scattered her things around, looking for a lighter.

She sat on the curb. She could barely raise her hand to her mouth to light the cigarette. She took a first drag and, as she exhaled, lay back into the dirty snowbank.

People walked around her, and Kat returned her discarded things inside the bag.

Above her, the tower blocks stretched towards the empty sky, creating the illusion of getting closer as they got higher, closing on the residents, trapping them.

Shouts in Russian echoed between the buildings. Some kind of slogan or chant. It came from where Alec had gone.

Hannah and Kat exchanged an alarmed look then sprinted in that direction.

They stopped beside a building and peered around the corner.

A few meters farther, Alec stood in the street while five chanting men walked towards him. They had shaved heads and sports coats with the insignia of Volkov’s nationalist group.

Other people scattered like cockroaches when the light is suddenly turned on, dashing inside the nearest building and escaping through side streets.

The group advanced towards Hardy. They marched in line. Their combat boots stomped the ground in sync. Hands poised on the knives at their belts. Threatening, but posing too, for his camera. Rather than back off, Alec stayed put and pressed the shutter button.

“They’re calling him American scum and propagandist,” Kat whispered.

“But he’s Scottish,” Hannah retorted as though that was the worst thing about this situation.

Alec glanced over his shoulder and spotted them.

“Kat, come here, I want to talk to them,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” Hannah told her, but she went anyway.

Kat kept her distance, but Alec wasn’t backing off. The men stepped well within his personal space. He was as tall as them, but much thinner. He held their gazes anyway.

“You’re outnumbered, you dumbass,” Hannah muttered.

“What are you doing in this area?” he asked. “Why did you come here? Do you know Alyosha Volkov? Did he send you here?”

“Yes, we have gift from Alyosha,” one of the men said, reaching for his knife.

Kat ran back to Hannah, but Alec didn’t budge. The man slashed his knife through the air.

Hannah’s heart stopped.

Alec photographed him.

“That is warning, next time…” The tip of his blade grazed Alec’s throat.

“What? You’ll murder me like those innocent girls?”

The man clenched his jaw, pushed his knife against the skin.

Hannah’s blood drained from her face.

Alec shoved him off.

The man laughed and turned his attention to Hannah. A roguish smile appeared on his lips. He said something she didn’t even want to hear translated.

“Your woman?” He licked his lips.

This time, Alec pushed him properly. The man punched him. Alec smiled. The five men made a grab for his coat and camera. He wrestled them away.

Alec bolted off, grabbing Hannah’s hand on the way.

They ran down the street, chased by the Russians. Kat was ahead of them.

Alec slipped on a patch of ice, and Hannah caught him. The men barked insults and laughed, closer and closer.

They reached the car. Kat was already behind the wheel.

As the men pounded on the trunk, they drove away.

A minute later, Alec started laughing. “Amateurs.”

Kat drove them back to the hotel they’d previously booked. Alec browsed the photos he’d taken on the digital screen. Hannah didn’t talk. At the reception, she asked for a second room, for herself.

* * *

Hannah sat down on the bed, stood up, paced the room, sat back down, stood up again. Paced some more.

There were red nail marks in her palms but she couldn’t feel them.

She left the room to knock on Hardy’s hotel room door. He opened so fast he must have been right behind it.

"What the hell, Alec?" Her voice shook with emotion

They stared at each other. A moment of tension. The second between lightning and thunder.

He grabbed her face and pressed his lips to hers. His long fingers cradled her jaw, and she melted against him. She fisted his shirt, parted her lips for him. 

Hannah broke the kiss first, pushed him off. 

His mouth hung open, panting. His eyes, when they met hers, were wild, excited. Pupils blown wide by adrenaline and arousal. He hadn't ran from these men, he wouldn't run from her, not anymore. She wanted to absorb his courage, his recklessness.

"You could've—"

"I'm fine.

"Knob."

She pulled him back to her by the collar of his shirt. Alec kissed her back right away, hands delving into her hair with an edge of desperation .

Kisses to forget. Kisses to reconnect.

She pressed her body to his until he walked backward into his room. His back hit the hallway wall. She rose on her tiptoes, trapped him there with kisses.

A surprised, happy sound escaped from the back of his throat when she pulled his shirt out of his jeans. Her hands sought every inch of skin from his smooth flanks to the bumps of his spine. More assessing than caressing.

She wanted him in a way that was beyond lust. A craving so urgent, it hurt.

He reversed their position, moving with Hannah against the opposite wall. His mouth covered her neck. He stretched her t-shirt collar, regardless of the ripping sound, only seeking more skin to taste.

Her leg hiked up over his hip, he pressed into her center, eliciting a moan from both of them. Shirts were discarded as their hips kept meeting. Removing jeans and underwear required to break contact, and they were too lost in the first sparks of pleasure.

His naked chest against hers, his warmth, his heartbeat, soothed her for a moment. His ragged exhale against her shoulder, the way he held her close, told her more than words could have.

Alec lifted her, her legs wrapped around his waist, and he carried her to the nearby dresser. As he kissed down her body, he pulled down her jeans and knickers, then buried his head between her legs.

Hannah grappled for purchase against the onslaught of pleasure. One hand grabbed the edge of the dresser, the other his hair. With thrusts of her hips, she met his tongue and fingers.

But it wasn’t enough. Whenever she closed her eyes, the crying faces of Aima and Keres came back to her.

She sat up. Kissing Alec roughly, she opened his button and fly. He grunted when she touched him. He must have been aching in his jeans.

She wasted no time, hopping off the dresser and turning around.

“Do it.”

He swiped the hair off her neck and kissed the nape with such gentleness her eyes welled up.

“No, fuck me.”

“Han…”

She found his hand, pressed it to her heart. And he finally entered her. Her jaw dropped with a moan, her eyes rolled back.

She urged him to go faster, harder. To feel him deep. To only feel him.

Alec pounded in her, frantic, messy. The dresser inched away with every thrust. Sweat from his brow dripped on her back. His teeth scraped her shoulder, and she welcomed the sting of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took nearly 3 weeks to update. I think I needed a creative break because I've been working on the same story since May. Thank you for sticking with me, I hope it was worth it. The next chapter is coming soon, for real :P


	15. RVH - Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah is still reeling from the events in St. Petersburg.

Alec’s arms were wrapped around her and his body fitted against her back. She didn’t want to wake up.

Behind the diaphanous curtains, St. Petersburg shone sodium-yellow in the night. They’d napped the afternoon away.

Endorphins had faded from her system. They had not erased the dreadful events of the day. The women’s faces, disfigured by sadness, flashed across her mind’s eye. Their grief clung to her like their hands had when they pleaded for help. And those awful men. She kept picturing the blade slicing Alec’s throat, like a knife through raw chicken.

She shuddered, and Alec stirred behind her. He caressed her arm and kissed her shoulder. 

“You were amazing today with Keres and Aima,” he said, then laid another soft kiss on her arm. “I think we can find more people to interview—”

“I hated what you made me do.”

“What?”

Hannah rose from the bed and put her knickers on. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

He sat on the edge of the bed, sheet around his waist.

“Oh, don't do that again.” His whiny tone grated her nerves.

She pulled her t-shirt on with more force than necessary.

He caught her hand. She stopped, but kept her eyes averted.

His voice changed, "Don't do this to me again." 

Every cell in her body screamed to run away.

He brushed his thumb over the tattoo on her inner wrist. The star that was supposed to be a compass. No wonder she’d lost her way. It reminded her of Erin, who had the same, and of her discussion with Ben. 

She swallowed thickly.

“It was too much for me. I’m not like you, Alec. I can’t do that again.”

“Sure you can. You did well.”

“Just because I can bear it doesn’t mean I should have to.”

“But you do. The men of Volkov’s gang, they were testing me but they’ll talk to us, I'm sure.”

“Have you got a death wish? I was so scared.”

“I wouldn't have let them harm you.”

“I know.” She grazed his jaw with her fingertips. “I was scared for you.”

“I'm used to it.”

She dropped her hand.

“That's even scarier.”

“They're like peacocks, fanning their knives instead of their feathers. We have to report a balanced story. Both sides. They wouldn’t kill a foreign journalist.”

“You can’t know that. Not for sure. Remember, Volkov killed a policeman. I’ve googled it you know, how many journalists are killed in the field.”

“Ooh, Hannah.”

“Eighty, Alec. In 2018 alone!”

“For god’s sake, people die taking selfies,” he retorted. “I have to do something to help. I can’t let fear stop me.”

“And how are you going to help anyone if you're dead?”

“Don't be so dramatic,” he replied, standing up to put on his pants.

“Injured, then. Or sick,” Hannah continued while he dressed. “Your heart, that's what happened isn't it? And what about your daughter, uh? I can’t be the first one telling you this.”

He mumbled something about his socks and avoided her gaze.

“You know, it doesn't make you a better person,” she added. “It’s not your guilt or your lack of sleep that makes a difference, it’s your hard work. And how long do you expect to keep working if you’re putting yourself in danger?”

“I can’t do it another way. How can I when I know what is happening in the world? What no one is talking about because it’s already yesterday’s news? Or because it doesn’t sell. I can’t be like all the bloody, stupid people.”

“And I’m one of these stupid people, aren’t I?” she said.

“If you give up now, you are."

“I’ll never be good enough for you.”

"And you think I should be like you. Living in denial. Not committing to anyone."

"At least I'm happy."

"See, I don't think you are."

They stared at each other, muscles stiff, fists clenched, standing on opposite sides of the bed. Tension stretched taut between them. One of them had to step forward or it would snap, break irreparably.

"I am happy.” She walked around the bed, and he met her halfway. She cupped his scruffy cheek. “I am… when I'm with you. Even when we argue.”

Closing his eyes, he nuzzled her palm.

“You’re not all dark and sad,” she said. “I’ve seen your photos, there’s so much light in you. Don’t snuff it out."

"What if I stop making you happy one day, Han? ‘Cause I'm not sure I can change.”

His voice was so soft it broke her heart.

“I'm not asking you to. I wouldn't want you to. It wouldn’t be right to ask you to change for me. Only to... You ask me to commit to you, care about you, but you won't even take care of yourself."

With a sigh, he sat on the bed and leaned forward until his forehead rested on her stomach. She cradled his head and caressed his hair.

The lump in her throat hurt.

"I don't want to lose you," she said.

He tugged on her hips to sit across his legs. He comforted her, rubbing her back while making soothing sounds.

They’d reached a stalemate.


	16. VKO - Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm after the storm.

He knew he had to apologize, that they had more to discuss and explain, that compromises would have to be made, but for now, holding Hannah close and pouring all his affection into the embrace was more important. He could have told her, then, how much he loved her. But he worried that too much, too soon would scare her off, and so, he conveyed it with tenderness instead.

“Are you going to get that?” she mumbled against his chest when his cellphone rang.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from her, just enough to reach the bedside table. The call came from his editor at _The British Inquirer_ — he had to take it.

“How’s it coming?” the editor asked. 

The noises of a busy office in the background were jarring compared to the heavy quiet of the hotel room.

“We were able to do the interviews. We gathered a lot of info,” he said, “but Volkov’s gang were onto us.”

The editor still doubted Hannah’s writing skills and demanded a sample of the article.

“Alright, I’ll get to it,” Hannah said without enthusiasm.

Hardy tracked her movements as she dragged her feet around the room to gather the last of her clothes. She checked her phone.

“Oh, Christ. I’ve two calls and an email from the Sweden tourism board. They must be wondering what I’m doing in Russia when I’m supposed to be working for them.”

She finished dressing up. She would leave his room, and he didn’t know if or when she would come back.

She paused with her hand on the door knob.

“Alec?”

His heart skipped a beat.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we’re safe? I mean, if they found us near Keres’s place, they could find us here.”

“That was a coincidence. They’re known for patrolling these neighborhoods,” he said. “We’re fine.”

He had his doubts, but preferred reassuring her, he was worried enough about her as it was.

In the washroom, his thoughts hindered his enjoyment of the rainfall shower head. The argument with Hannah played in a loop in his mind.

He’d never known his own limits.

There was a time, after covering his first war, in Bosnia, when he hadn’t expected to live past thirty years of age. And he’d welcomed each new year with renewed determination to make the best of it. 

Where had that thirst for life gone?

When he was diagnosed with arrhythmia, what should have been a turning point, a moment of critical introspection, sent him right back to his old habits because he discovered his wife’s affair while convalescing at home.

Against his doctor’s orders, he drowned himself in work, then collapsed while chasing a jihadist. 

Maybe he did have a death wish.

Towel around his hips, Hardy stared at his reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror. With his fingers, he combed his hair to the right, to the back, to the front, then grimaced— that’s not what she meant by taking better care of himself.

Volkov’s man had left a faint cut under his chin. Nothing compared to the injuries he’d sustained in the field before. A red trace remained on his shin. 

Last December, he broke his leg in Sudan by falling out of a jeep. He fell out because they drove too close to a land mine. And they drove too close because he insisted on visiting that dangerous area. Later, when Hannah had shown up at the book signing, he was glad she’d seen him with a cast on his leg. 

He wore his injuries like badges of honor, earned in combat zones, in the pursuit of justice.

Hannah was right, he thought they made him a better person. 

But the thing was, his broken leg had prevented him from going out to take more photos, and in the end, very little came out of his work because it was cut short.

Hardy lined his equipment on the desk and focused on checking battery levels, and on brushing dust off the lenses then wiping them with a soft cloth. Fastidious manual work to take the edge off his disquiet. But on the bed beside him, the sheets still bore her scent and traces of their entwined bodies.

She’d said she didn’t want to lose him, and he didn’t want to lose her either.

His gaze landed on the room service menu. They hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast on the ferry, twelve hours ago. That might entice her back to his room.

Indeed, when a waiter delivered the food, Hannah peeked out of her room.

“Any for me?”

He opened the door for her, acting more nonchalant than he felt.

She carried her laptop in. She was fresh out of the shower, in yoga pants, hair in loose braids. On her t-shirt, a cartoon red balloon and a cactus looked at each other over the words “impossible love”. He quirked an eyebrow at it.

“Oh, no, don’t read too much into it… You _are_ a bit like a cactus.”

She stroked his cheek, giggling. It felt so good to see her smile.

Sitting at the small table, with a Russian news program in the background, they scarfed down mediocre pasta and beer. An indecent amount of carbs was exactly what they needed, it seemed.

He’d ordered chocolate cake as well, a peace offering of sorts. Upon removing the plate cover, he discovered something written on the plates with chocolate syrup: “Happy Valentine’s Day”.

“Is that today?” Hannah asked incredulously. “Did you ask them to write that?”

His face told her how unlikely that was, and she laughed again. She dipped her finger in chocolate frosting and licked it.

“Shall we get to work? I’ll need your help, I’ve never written anything like it.”

They settled side by side with their computers, Hardy put on his glasses while she began typing.

He kept glancing her way, to assess her mood. She claimed writing would help her process what had happened during the day. So did looking at his own pictures. He wasn’t scared when Volkov’s gang threatened him. In moments like these, his sole preoccupation is getting good pictures, everything else fades away. But looking at them now, blurry with rage, frothing at the mouth, he saw what Hannah had witnessed. His instinct still told him they wouldn’t kill a foreign journalist— Volkov had political ambitions, after all— but a second of impulsivity was all it took.

He tweaked the contrast, tried black and white. 

He mulled over what she’d said about his photos and about the light in him. “Don’t snuff it out.” He hoped it wasn’t too late for that. But most of all, he hoped he wasn’t snuffing her light out by dragging her into this.

“What’s the name of the streets where their bodies were found?” Hannah asked, looking up from her computer.

Hardy searched through his notes while Hannah pulled out a map of the city provided by their hotel. She indicated the crime scenes with little stars, two different streets, on the same block as the Embassy Suites Hotel. More evidence of a connection between Volkov and the murders. 

They speculated about the sequence of events, specifically carrying the bodies to the rubbish bins where they were found. What started as a serious conversation turned into an over-the-top, hypothetical serial killer scenario.

“I think I’ve watched too many episodes of CSI,” Hannah said, chuckling.

The map was a touristic one. Her fingers traced the network of canals— St. Petersburg was nicknamed the Venice of the North— and lingered on cartoon renditions of the main attractions: Mariinsky Theatre, Peterhof palace, the Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood. All the beautiful places she hadn’t seen today. Her gaze turned to the window, and the lively city beyond it.

A snowstorm raged outside, or perhaps it was normal weather here this time of year. Wind whistled around the window. He thought of Aima in her cold room.

Hannah borrowed his wool jumper and put her feet up on his chair, warming her toes under his thigh. He absent-mindedly stroked her ankle as he browsed the day’s pictures.

Although he and Tess used to work together, her job as editor, agent and publisher meant their collaboration happened after he’d been out in the field. Countless nights he’d spent alone in non-descript hotel rooms. It could be different from now on.

The staccato of the keyboard decreased until Hannah was only staring at her screen, its blue light illuminated her vacant gaze.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“I want to visit Kyrgyzstan.”

He chuckled.

She toyed with the end of her braid, wrapping it again and again around her index finger.

“I… I don't think I could go by myself, though,” she added.

“I’ve never been there.”

They exchanged a glance, then shied away.

“Anyways. How’s this?” She turned the computer towards him. 

Biting her nails, she watched him read her first draft.

The text was less objective than it ought to be for a serious newspaper, but it was a good example of how her writing pulled readers in. She began with an incongruous detail that immediately raised questions in one’s mind. Then touches of humor lightened the heavy subject matter. As he kept reading, the narrative shed light on her reaction earlier.

_Keres’s youngest daughter, Eldana, said she wanted to be like me: Instagram-famous. We took photos together. It was the least I could do. The only thing I could do for her. With every flash, the lump in my throat thickened. Seeing us side by side, I had never been more aware of my privileges and their part in my success: I am educated, from a middle-class and stable family, fluent in English, white and able-bodied, and my beauty is the kind promoted by media everywhere. Eldana has none of that._

_I have done nothing to deserve these advantages in life. They were given to me at birth. This knowledge created a visceral discomfort in me. The members of Volkov’s gang are privileged too, yet they feel threatened by people who are different and less fortunate. I wondered what my discomfort would turn me into._

_When we said our goodbyes, I noticed the logo on Eldana’s name tag: she worked at the same hotel as her sister. Her mother’s arduous journey from Kyrgyzstan, in the hopes of giving her children a better future, had failed._

Hardy reached for Hannah’s hand and pressed his lips to it for a long time.

“We've heard that story before, haven't we?” she said, pensively. “An immigrant woman working, perhaps illegally, as a maid, and one day she doesn't come back home.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He kissed her hand again. “Listen to me. See that discomfort you’re feeling? You can use it. Comfort kills courage. So, stoke it, your discomfort. It’ll keep you going. We’re gonna get Volkov.”

“You believe our work will make a difference.”

“That’s the paradoxical thing about journalism, the more you do it, the more awful things we see committed by humans, and yet we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t believe there are good people out there who will care.”

“Wise words,” she said, with a touch of humor.

“From a wise old man?”

“You’re not old, you’re experienced,” she said, repeating something he’d told her before. “That’s why I love talking with you.”

She squeezed his hand earnestly, then released it.

She returned to her draft, rephrasing sentences he’d pointed out. He sent it to the editor with a few photos attached.

Her fingers drummed on the table top, her work might be done, but she was still preoccupied. 

“Alec, did you mean it when you said I was amazing today?” 

“Yes,” he said without a second of hesitation.

She rubbed her brow and sighed.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I'm going to say this.”

“What?”

“We should investigate at Volkov's hotels.”

Hardy perked up. “You want to keep working on this?”

“I can’t meet Volkov’s gang like you want—”

“That’s okay, I understand.”

“But I always sneak around and talk to maids when I review a hotel. It’s not so different. I think. I can do that. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“When I’ll ask you to leave, we leave.”

“Okay. Promise.”

Hardy started packing his cameras right away.

“I didn’t want to go right now,” she said. “Can’t we get a good night sleep first?”

He glanced at the alarm clock. It was only 9 o’clock, and their time here was limited. Then he looked at her and something occurred to him.

"I can try. I slept well this afternoon—” he walked closer to her— “after we… maybe if we do it again…"

"Cheeky bastard."

She crossed her wrists behind his neck and kissed him. 

“Are you making a habit of kissing me after insulting me?” he asked.

“Only when you deserve it.”

She brushed her smiling lips against his, not letting him kiss her right away. The caress of her mouth, her body pressing against his, it made his stomach feel like hot fudge.

“There’s a Jacuzzi in my room,” she whispered with a naughty smile.

“That so? Well, it’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”

Laughing, they ran next door.

There was no urgency this time, nothing to forget or escape, only tenderness and forgiveness.

* * *

_At the Embassy Suites hotel, we recognized two of the security guards as members of the group who threatened photographer Alec Hardy yesterday. We found members of the staff at the back of the building instead. They were friendly until we started inquiring about their director. No one would say a bad word about Volkov or the management team, they all repeated the same speech. Since the trial began, there has been many journalists coming to the hotel. Volkov himself was not in because of this._

_We tracked down two former employees of the Rozanica Inn, Volkov’s other hotel in St. Petersburg. Both of them had coworkers who one day did not come back to the hotel without an explanation. Afareen Abdulov, 23, from Tajikistan, disappeared in october 2014, and Huma Tagaev, 19, from Uzbekistan, in January 2015. We were unable to confirm if missing reports existed at the police for them._

_According to one source, clients often offered money to maids in exchange for sexual favours. The hotel management was aware of this and encouraged it. Even when maids were underage. Another source said she was fired after refusing to have sex with an important client._

_Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, we know four British politicians have stayed at the Embassy Suites last year whilst on official duty._

_It is unknown at the moment if the parent company of Volkov’s hotels, Group Peregrine, is aware of these malpractices. Last year, Group Peregrine were accused of illegal seizing of lands in Indonesia and of violating international child labour laws in Kenya. They declined our request for an interview._

They’d set up a work space over two tables in a café across the street from the ferry terminal. They were running against time to finish the article on their investigation before the newspaper’s deadline.

“It’s so… arid,” Hannah said as she dotted the last sentence of the article. Her usual writing style was more effusive and personal.

“It’s the facts,” Hardy said.

“And I have a word limit. Do you think it will do?”

“I think it’ll have to do, deadline’s in fifteen minutes.”

“What a glowing endorsement. Don’t be so lovey-dovey in public,” she joked.

“It’s a fair and balanced report. That’s the best you can aspire to. How do you feel about it?”

“I’m proud. I pushed myself. I was thorough even when I was scared. Yeah, I’m proud.”

He smiled at her, that shy, heart-melting smile of his, and she knew he was proud of her too. His approval mattered, but it was for herself and for Aima, Keres and Eldana that she’d persevered. A moment of understanding passed between them, and they squeezed each other’s hands.

Hardy showed her two pictures on his tablet of maids smoking behind the hotel after they’d questioned them. “Which one?”

“Hmm… I think this one tells what I can’t write.”

One maid said she’d heard an argument between Aima’s daughter and Volkov, but then retracted her statement because it made her too easily identifiable, and she feared the repercussions. In the end, they stuck to the “official” statement, but Hardy’s photo captured their fear.

Hannah saved her text and sent it to Hardy, he attached his photos and forwarded everything to the editor in chief of The British Inquirer.

“We haven’t really solved the murder, though,” Hannah said.

“We’re not policemen.”

“Maybe our work will make someone else investigate.”

Across the street, behind the port authority buildings, the massive silhouette of the ferry loomed.

Hannah had to leave. She was returning to Stockholm to complete her assignment there. She’d been ignoring increasingly furious emails from the Sweden tourism board. She had two days left to carry out a week’s worth of sightseeing before flying back to London. It felt like years had gone by since she’d first landed in Stockholm, but in reality, only three days had passed.

Hardy would stay in Russia. He still meant to meet members of Volkov’s gang. Although she was concerned about his safety, she understood his reasons now: the importance of showing ordinary men taken to extreme behavior by a charismatic leader.

Hannah packed her computer and notebook. Hardy stood up and held her coat up for her.

“I know you said you have that rule about meeting in London—”

“It’s a rubbish rule.”

“So, I can see you again?”

“If you stay alive,” her tone was playful not accusing.

“I’ll try… You’re right. I’m no use to anyone if I’m hurt.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I bet you will.”

She took a deep breath that rose her shoulders and kissed him.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

“Me too. I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this made up for the angst in the previous chapter. 
> 
> Let me know where you would like Hardy and Hannah to go next!  
> We’ve had summer in Indonesia/Singapore, autumn on the American East Coast, winter in Northern Europe. Next is Spring, one chapter, kind of like an epilogue. I know what happens but it’s not tied to any particular destination yet, so I thought I’d take your suggestions :D
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting!


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